


Twisted Legacy

by RenaRoo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 125,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Canon Divergence from MTMTE and exRID #54] The legacy of the Primes has had a tainted past, one that weighs heavily on Optimus, his supporters, and those who seek the legacy for the future. But as they look forward for themselves and for Cybertron, a darkness looms that threatens to further corrupt the unsteady peace of their planet with its curious claim to be the Hand of Primus himself.</p><p>It’s up to Optimus, Windblade, Rodimus, and their teams to try and save all Cybertronians from this mysterious threat and, perhaps, change the future for the better if they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.1 The Draw of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> So I have had plans for this story since at least April and continued to put it off because it was never quite fitting up with the way canon lined up. But I got to a point where I was pretty proud of what the idea grew into an decided it was more of a Now or Never thing! So, after promising @crim-bat that I’d get around to doing this for forever, I’m finally going to start actually publishing this sucker. 
> 
> Just for clarification, this is going to be diverging from the events of MTMTE and exRID #54 on, where in this world (as the story will clear up later), Perceptor and a group of other crewmembers took back the ship from Getaway and came back for the Lost Light crew, and Optimus and Jetfire came to Cybertron after seeing the messages the Lost Lighters on the Necrobot’s planet sent. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

**Part I: Mask of the Red Death  
Chapter 1.1: The Draw of the Light**

The messages had been hard to overlook in the weeks of travel between Ark-7 and Cybertron. Seeing friends, new and old and unmet, lined up in a macabre display, leaving final requests with somber seeming acceptance. 

Optimus reflected on them as Cybertron drew near because they were the only things that kept him locked on his destination. Certainly not Cybertron itself after the ruling against him with regards to bringing Earth into the Council of Worlds. 

He was going for answers, and if he could do so without having to learn them from a single member of the Council then it would all be for the better. 

Though Optimus doubted that any trip to Cybertron could be so simple after all that had happened. 

The fear and apprehension of friends – speaking of funeral requests and burials and things that so many good mechs should never have had to record in such an invasive and openly hurting way – helped drown out the accusations that had him leave Cybertron for Earth again in the first place. Claims of tainted Primal legacies and abuses of power. 

And the disappointment he had seen clearly on so many faces that had dug deep into his spark most of all. 

Unable to take the silence much more, Optimus stepped closer to Jetfire’s side and watched over him carefully. 

“Try hailing again,” he ordered, his voice still harsher and more strained than he meant. 

“Cybertron or the Lost Light?” Jetfire asked, his voice doing a much better job of hiding aggravation or annoyance than Optimus’ lately. 

“Both,” Optimus said, watching carefully as his orders were followed through to the letter. 

He tried to make note for later, to thank Jetfire for showing patience with him in his current frame of mind. But it was hard to make note of much of anything outside of those faces. 

After another long but anticipated pause from the ship’s communication channel, the light changed.

Optimus felt his spark leap with surprise and hope. “Jetfire, is it…?”

“It’s Cybertron,” the jet replied, pulling up the screen. They watched as the static dissolved into an image of Ironhide. 

“Prime!” Ironhide greeted over the line. 

“Hello, old friend,” Optimus said, leaning over Jetfire’s shoulder to look more intently into their own viewscreen. “Myself and Jetfire are currently inbound for Cybertron.”

There was a noticeable grimace to the old truck’s face. “I am betting I could wager why.”

“Do you have any news about the situation?” Jetfire interrupted. “By the time we got the transmission on Earth, _three weeks_ had passed. And we’ve been unable to hail the Lost Light or any of the crew since then.”

“It was our hope that Cybertron could provide answers about Rodimus and his crew that were inaccessible to us,” Optimus continued, his grip on the panel of the ship tightening. “Do we know if it was Megatron?”

While Optimus’ suspicions about what had caused such messages to be sent out had been burned into his frame from the first moments of watching the transmission, he had not dared give them voice before then. And given Jetfire’s appraisal of him, Optimus’ fellow Autobot had carried similar fears. 

The guilt had been crushing – the idea that as questionable of a decision as it had been for the Prime to place an admitted war criminal in charge of an entire ship of former soldiers, of old _friends_  and trusted peers, it would have gone as poorly as this. 

It had been enough to ignite that long burning emotion that a word like _hate_ was too simple to portray. 

“Yeah, we have news,” Ironhide said begrudgingly. “Not a huge amount but it’s news all the same.”

For a moment, Optimus was able to release his grip. 

“They’re alive?” Jetfire asked brightly, the kind of enthusiasm Optimus wished desperately his own spark still possessed. 

“It’s hard getting straight answers,” Ironhide explained lowly. “From what we’ve managed to hear there’s been a hell of a lot of drama on the ship since it last made contact with anyone. But, yeah, from reports we can get there _are_ survivors.”

The wording did not escape Optimus. He leaned back, shuttering his optics for just a moment. 

 _Survivors._ But not all of them. 

Could he have lost Rodimus still? Even amongst the hope of having some of his friends spared by whatever fate the Lost Light had met, could he so soon after losing Bumblebee have handed over another young and promising bot to the Afterspark with his flawed decisions?

“Prime?” Ironhide’s voice carried a note of concern.

“I am listening, old friend,” Optimus promised. “Can we receive _any_ clarification about the events on the Lost Light?”

“There was a mess of a staged mutiny, a Decepticon attack, then Perceptor says he got control of the ship and circled back for those in the transmission – hard to keep it all straight, to be honest with you,” Ironhide continued. “But if you’re enroute to Cybertron, you’ll likely get to have your questions answered directly for yourself.”

Jetfire leaned forward. “What do you mean, Ironhide?”

“The Lost Light is making its way back, too. Fortunately one of the survivors is a quantum mechanic – got their ship to perform a successful jump on low fuel and some damages,” Ironhide explained. 

“Damages received from the Decepticon encounter?” Optimus hazarded a guess.

“No, from the mutiny and re-mutiny,” Ironhide answered.

“Hm,” Optimus’ engine hummed as he pushed off from the panel and stood back. “I believe you’re right, Ironhide. I shall get the answers I seek from the Lost Light itself once we arrive on Cybertron.”

"At this rate you’ll have gotten to port and had time for a good chat before everything’s cleared up here,” Ironhide huffed, a tinge of aggravation showing on his face.

“Primus, is something _else_ wrong?” Jetfire asked as he guided their ship into Cybertronian airspace. 

“Oh, Starscream, our fearless leader, making everything a hundred times more difficult than necessary,” the old mech scoffed. “So _the usual._ They’ve been deliberating about letting the Lost Light to port for close to an hour now.”

Optimus felt that unyielding anger toward Starscream build yet again – the leader his people chose, and how he continued to abuse that power while accusing the Prime of the same. 

“We shall see how quickly that can clear up,” Optimus said. “Thank you for the update, Ironhide. It is much appreciated.”

“I’ll meet you at the shipyard, I’m no help in this political arena that much is for sure. Leave it to Windblade to sort out,” he said, hopefully not noticing the squint even mention of Windblade had earned from Optimus. “And thanks for coming back, Optimus.”

The Autobot leader watched as the screen flickered off. 

He wished for comfort to wash over him, for some sort of relief from the mounting pressure. But the continued lack of full answers, the mounting tension from returning to Cybertron after being twice rejected by it – it didn’t go away. It only boiled and festered. 

“We’re almost home,” Jetfire mused, attempting desperately to offer their situation levity that Optimus had long ago stopped being able to afford. 

After a moment, watching as the grounds of Cybertron neared them, Optimus looked to the jet again. “Jetfire, make another attempt at hailing the Lost Light.”

“But–” he began to protest only to lean back under Optimus’ full gaze. He looked to the communication controls. “Attempting to hail. Again.”

They both watched as the light blinked, unanswered. 

By the time they landed and Optimus released the control panel, it had been crushed beneath the force of his servos. 

* * *

The fact that Starscream and she shared even the slightest similarities in altmode was enough to make Windblade’s protoform crawl at times. Even sitting on opposite sides of the council’s meeting chamber was not enough to make her feel any better as they sat deadlocked on this debate.

“These are fellow Cybertronians in need of assistance,” she argued for what felt to be the hundredth time. “And with criminals on board in need of proper securing and trial.”

“It is a ship of over two hundred trained Autobot soldiers – many of whom do not acknowledge current Cybertronian authority,” Starscream argued, optics gleaming. But it was not in his usual confident wiles. Windblade was nearly taken aback by the genuine worry that worked its way into their leader’s scowl. “And _yes_  there are criminals on board, criminals who _should_ be tried and dealt with. And the worst among them – the one whose mere presence could incite war yet again – is none other than the captain of that vessel. _Former_ lord of the Decepticons, _current_ Autobot untried for the most heinous of crimes – _Megatron._ And the idea that this Council, for even a _second_ has thought to give clearance to this vessel tells me what I already know. The colonists do _not_ understand the history and concerns that are purely Cybertronian. And you, Windblade, do not have the right to interfere with Cybertonian affairs. This decision is mine. The Lost Light will _not_ be landing on Cybertonian soil.”

Frustration seized Windblade once more and she clenched her fists. How one mech could manage to be _so_ unreasonable was truly beyond her. 

"Lord Starscream,” Strika spoke up, finally putting down the datapad that she had been obscuring her face with since the start of the debate. 

Immediately, the rest of the Council delegates sat upright in their seats again and began to look ready for actual delegation. Windblade felt relief come over her again – curious and cautionary as the colonists from Carcer may have been, she could always count on them to be the first to take a firm stand during meetings. 

“Legally I would ordinarily agree with you on Cybertronian affairs. I find any time the Council begins to overstep its bounds on _any_ independent government’s proceedings to be worriesome,” she said. “However, you neglect the personal stake our Camien delegate has in this particular ruling. Had the Lost Light be _purely_ Cybertonian natives, there would be no argument. But there _are_ Camiens listed upon its manifest. And so I agree with Windblade. This deserves a Council of Worlds vote on its proceedings.”

With some encouragement, Windblade glanced back to their High Chancellor just in time to see his sputtering. 

Always animated, Starscream got to his feet once more, his seat scratching the floor behind him. “None of you can _truly_ be thinking that _two_ Camiens on a manifest of _two hundred_ can be worth both upsetting the _delicate_ balance between those affiliated and nonaffiliated on Cybertron,” he reasoned. 

Gnashing her denta, Windblade leaned forward against the table. “I assure you, Starscream, for Caminus _every_ mech – every friend – is worthwhile.” 

“As should be all colonists,” Knock Out contributed, steepling his fingers before his face as an easy smirk worked its way onto his intake. As usual, the Velocitronian seemed most involved with the proceedings when presented with drama on the floor. 

Realizing his error, Starscream eased back into his seat. “Of course _all_ of our brothers and sisters are of equal concern to the Council and _especially_ myself,” he forced out. “But difficult calls _must_ be made in dire situations. And sometimes _individuals_ cannot be weighed against the wellbeing of the masses.” 

“ _As_ a Cybertonian,” Rattrap spoke up, putting a hand to his spark, “may I _just_ say I feel concern for my safety if a war criminal like Megatron is allowed free passage whenever he wants. You know. For the _general public.”_

Unimpressed, Windblade crossed her arms and glared at Starscream. “Of course, the general public and no one in particular.”

“They have injured on board,” one of the Devisiun delegates said.

“And not the supplies to properly aid them,” the other added without missing a beat.

“It _is_ Megatron among them, though,” Obsidian added, striking Windblade’s Carcer support from her confidence. 

The debate began to heat up once more when Windblade heard the familiar bing in her audial of a private channel honing her. She turned her shoulders slightly from the table and reached to her head to answer, earning a curious look from Chromia behind her. 

"Windblade,” a gruff but familiar voice spoke out over the frequency.

With some relief, Windblade dropped the tension in her shoulders. “Ironhide, is everything alright?”

“Good as things can,” the old bot replied curtly. “I just met Prime. He wants to know the status of the Lost Light crew _yesterday_. You bureaucrats made progress yet?”

Humming slightly, Windblade glanced toward the arguing Council and nodded to herself. “No, but I have a plan. Bring the Prime to our chamber.”

Ironhide hesitated, a long sigh clear on his end of the communicator. “I’m not so certain he’s going to be ecstatic about meetin’ with you all again, Windblade. He _just_ got here after last time…”

“Ironhide,” Optimus’ voice, so deep and commanding to be picked up even on the secure line, “if it is for the safety in regards of my friends on the Lost Light, then I am more than willing to deal with unfavorable politics. Tell Windblade I shall be there shortly.”

“Tell Prime he comes in loud and clear,” Windblade answered before Ironhide even had the chance. “And ask him to trust me. As hard as that may be right now.”

The moment her message was delivered, Windblade dropped the channel and looked back toward the Council. 

Starscream’s red optics were already fixated on her. “Are we interrupting something _more important_ than your own impromptu meeting, Windblade?” he asked thinly. “I will be happy to adjourn while you sort your affairs.”

“No need, _Lord_ Starscream,” she fired back, placing her hands on her hips. “And I assure the Council that it was _not_ personal matters but matters which ascertain to the current discussion directly.” After a beat, she smiled pleasantly to her fellow councilmechs. “I am bringing forth a character witness _and_ a relevant _Starscream-appointed_ judge to settle the jurisdiction of the Lost Light.”

Settling with a heavy exvent, Airazor of Eukaris seemed more than satisfied with the compromise. “Very well. I am glad to hear an appointed judge of Cybertron’s ruling on the matter.”

A noise of agreement rang throughout the Council, save for Starscream who had once more gotten up on his pedes. 

“What are you playing at, Windblade?” he asked brashly. “I have no appointed judge who could act as a _character witness_ for Cybertron’s largest threat!” 

“On the contrary, Starscream,” Windblade said confidently, just as there was a knock on the chamber door. “This particular judge was appointed even before you helped create this great Council. And most importantly of all, he reigned over the very trial now brought to question.”

Most of the Council looked curious if not confused, but there was nothing but haunted clarity on Starscream’s face as the door opened and revealed the Prime himself.

Immediately the Council was put back on edge. It had only been just one hearing before the current where they had denied the Prime’s request for a seat at their council for Earth.

“You _cannot_ be serious,” Starscream scoffed. “ _Windblade_ , Prime has no right–”

“He has in this matter. _You,_ after all, had a hand in appointing him after the near destruction of Cybertron at the hands of a former associate of yours,” Windblade reminded him sharply. 

Optimus never looked less than intimidating and confident, but Windblade had taken the Prime’s confidence enough by that point to see an unsettling worry rest on his already burdened shoulders. He looked somewhat lost to her. 

“I’m not certain _exactly_ what my presence is to mean for this proceeding,” Optimus admitted.

“Not much if I can help it,” Starscream grumbled _just_ enough as he plopped back into his seat.

"But I saw for myself that my friends – met and unmet – were suffering, and are now asking for help,” the Prime said firmly. “And I would hope, for the sake of all Cybertronians – native to the world or abroad – that this council would _surely_ not deny that to them.”

Windblade watched as the room shifted toward the Prime. It was natural, there were few whose consciences Windblade was not certain of seeing reason. But even in his current scrutiny, the word of a Prime was persuasive.

Especially one who was half the orator that Optimus Prime had proven himself to be in Windblade’s presence.

Unfortunately, the Camien could not have predicted how Optimus, in serious and concerned tones, next asked, “Do we know for certain if Megatron was involved?”

Her face falling, Windblade glanced across the table to see the smug look on Starscream’s face.

“He claims not, and is currently acting as captain of your Autobranded ship,” Starscream responded snidely.

Optimus’ servos closed into fists. “He is _not_ sole captain. What of Rodimus?”

“We have mostly been speaking through Perceptor,” Windblade answered. “But Rodimus is on the list of those who we have confirmed are onboard.” 

The Prime eased up in his stance, but Starscream became loose and suave as ever upon the revelations of Optimus’ true concerns. He waved to the rest of the Council. 

“As you can see by Windblade’s _aptly_ provided character witness, there is not much gained by allowing Megatron to step foot onto our uneasy planet,” he said simply. “Therefore I think the decision here is simple. The Lost Light _will not_ be allowed to land.”

“Nonsense,” Optimus spoke out of turn, ruffling more than a few of the delegates in the process. “Have you not seen the transmission? Have you not seen that they _need_ our help?”

Seeing the alarm raised among the Council, Windblade stepped up to the Prime and turned uneasily toward her fellow delegates. She placed a calming servo on Optimus’ chest plate subtly enough she hoped it would not be taken as holding him back but rather as the soothing gesture that it was. 

“I believe there is such a thing as compromise here,” Windblade said. “Lord Starscream, the Lost Light _must_ land and be given privileges here. They are our brothers and sisters and the Prime _is_ right, they have had harm befall them someway. We cannot ignore that. But, as the concerns about one of the captains seems truly valid, then he _shouldn’t_ be granted access to the planet. He must stay on the ship.” She looked around to the others convincingly. “It _is_ a rather large ship.”

The Council nodded. 

“This is logical, Windblade,” Strika agreed. 

More nods came from every delegate outside of Cybertron itself, and Starscream visibly boiled with anger, fists clenched on the table before him. 

“And yet another chapter of this Council being used to end a petty squabble between its founders comes to an end,” Knock Out yawned, a roll given to his optics. “Now can we get this order under way? I have read some _fascinating_ things about the medical staff of this ship that I would like to follow up on. Motion to adjourn?” 

“Seconded,” Tigatron growled out, rising to his feet as well. 

Windblade watched as the Council began to file out, various cliques uniting as they so often did after the meetings, leaving an angered Starscream to march toward his private quarters without so much as another word to either of his objectors. 

Then she took a moment and turned just in time to see Optimus heading toward the door and an awaiting Ironhide. 

Surprised, Windblade raced after, Chromia at her heels. “Wait! Optimus! We need to talk!” 

The Autobot took pause and looked down to Windblade. “Agreed,” he said. “And about _many_ things. But what we discuss now will have to be able to be said on the way to the way to the shipyard. There is not much would justify not being there to see the state of the Lost Light for myself.”

“I understand,” she said, keeping in step with him. 

Ironhide and Chromia stayed behind, sharing casual glances of concern the whole way but otherwise silent. 

Lost for words, Windblade glanced to Optimus. “Before anything else, I just want to thank you for coming to the meeting when it needed you… When _I_ needed you.”

“In times of trouble, even if those times give the appearance of peace on our world,” Optimus said lowly, optics glancing back to Windblade softly, “I hope it will always be my call to be steadfast for my friends.”

“Thank you, Optimus,” Windblade replied gently in turn. 

* * *

Rodimus inspected every rotation of his servo, every movement of his digits with the sort of attention to detail Ultra Magnus would probably swear he didn’t possess. And he waited in brooding silence to the sounds of the frantic work of the medical staff as they triaged the rest of his crew.

Over the sounds of welding and discontented grunts and groans across the medbay, Rodimus clenched his fist. 

He had a ship of over two hundred, and the only ones he felt he could trust were in the room with him right then and there. And after what they had all just went through, Rodimus wasn’t so certain that they even felt the same. 

The thought stung him so deeply Rodimus’ world became a blur outside of that shaking servo. 

It was the sort of blinding rage that fogged his processor and made him forget where the anger was really directed to begin with. At least until a strong servo grasped his shoulder, pulling Rodimus out of thought and instead to look up at his returned friend.

Drift. Another past mistake, but maybe one that held some hope of being fixed. 

“We’ve got news,” Drift said, doing his level best to sound in good spirits. “Can you walk? I know the energon’s been low so I didn’t know if you’ve been replenished yet–”

“What kind of news?” Rodimus interrupted, pushing off the berth and onto his pedes. 

“The kind from Cybertron that Perceptor wants to tell both captains at the same time,” Drift answered, walking in step with Rodimus toward the other side of the medbay where Megatron was still tended. “So either really good, or, well, you know the drill better than most.”

It was the sort of gentle dig that at the start of the Lost Light’s journey, Rodimus wouldn’t have thought twice about from one of his closest friends. But like the thought of his crew’s mistrust and of the mutiny, now it only served to sicken Rodimus’ fuel tank.

For his part, Drift hadn’t brought up anything about their situation since his return. Given, they’d all been rather busy trying not to die. 

It was on the list of things Rodimus needed to address as soon as he could tell the rest of his crew was safe and secure. Including his co-captain and the mech responsible for their last minute rescue from mutiny to begin with. 

Perceptor stood by Megatron’s berth with no less than three datapads and an expectant look on his face as they came up to him. So far he hadn’t said even the first word to Rodimus directly about how he hadn’t ended up on the Necrobot’s planet with them as part of the crew Getaway didn’t deem trustworthy, nor had he said anything about how he managed to wrestle back control of the Lost Light.

All Rodimus knew for the time being was that while the rest of them tried to keep their parts in order in the medbay and their lead mutineers stayed under guard in the brig, everyone was answering to Perceptor for the time being. 

The situation, at the least, was _delicate._

“Is it Starscream again? Can I take a turn yelling at him this time?” Rodimus asked as he finished his approach. 

“You will have to stand in line. It appears your co-captain has claimed first right,” Ultra Magnus announced – rather, _Minimus_ had, standing alongside the armor of Ultra Magnus. 

It always unnerved Rodimus to see the Magnus armor lifeless and to the side, though given its recent damage it couldn’t have been helped. 

Megatron stared over his own severely damaged lower half to appraise Rodimus. His usual scowl was offset a bit, deep in thought. “Why are you standing around here? You’re damaged. Take a seat.”

“Someone has to carry your leftover responsibilities,” Rodimus dismissed with a wave of his hand. “What’s the news Percy?”

“Firstly, no one will be able to scream their grievances at Cybertron’s anointed Chosen One,” Perceptor responded with a completely straight face which made it _impossible_ for Rodimus to tell whether or not any sarcasm was featured. “He seems to have dignified further correspondence with the ship as beneath him and so we will instead be receiving news through… Rattrap.”

For a moment, Rodimus allowed the information to be processed before dropping his shoulders and rolling his optics. “Gee, _what_ an improvement.”

“If Starscream is not delivering the address to us then the decision must have been made in our favor,” Megatron acknowledged, easing back. “There has not been a time since I have known Starscream where he willingly passed up the opportunity to gloat.”

There were at least four cutting remarks Rodimus had prepared for Megatron, but he took a moment to exvent instead. It wasn’t the time and, more importantly, he wasn’t truly in the mood. 

There was still the feeling of _us_ and _them_ that Rodimus had burned into his frame from the mutiny. Megatron was _us_ , as shocking and unexpected as that would have been to Rodimus only a year prior. 

“It isn’t all good news, though, is it?” Drift asked skeptically, his arms crossing against his newly plated chest. 

“We have been granted landing privileges,” Perceptor started with. 

Rodimus groaned, shuddering his optics as he rubbed at them. “Aw, come on, Percy, you’re supposed to give the _bad news_ first.”

“We will receive aid, supplies, and transfer of prisoners, however it is under the condition that Megatron himself is not to lay foot upon Cybertronian land. And thus is restricted to only the ship itself throughout the duration,” Perceptor explained without pause. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Drift scoffed.

Shocked, Rodimus glanced toward Megatron only to find a completely unreadable expression on his faceplate. He was deep in thought once more, but not disturbed by Perceptor’s news. 

However, Rodimus _was._

“It’s _outrageous_ is what it is!” Rodimus snapped, waving his arm to his co-captain. “Percy, whether they like it or not Megatron is also captain of this ship, and he’s also the _most_ damaged of all of us who made it out of the Pits half the crew threw us into! Where’s it in the Autobot Code that we neglect those who need help among our enemies? Hell, even _Ratchet_ has been responsible for saving Megs’ life at this point! And no one takes more gripes with his continued existence than Ratchet.” Rodimus paused and glanced to Megatron. “No offense.”

“I find the truth to be refreshing, Rodimus,” Megatron answered simply. 

“It may not be a fair ruling, but ultimately it comes from Cybertron’s appointed leader and utmost authority,” Minimus reminded them, putting his tiny hands on his hips. “And no matter our feelings, it is important to take care of those we can. Not to mention that if we do not accept the offer, then we cannot get the supplies onboard that we would need to fully repair everyone anyway.”

Grinding back on his denta, Rodimus finally waved his hand. “Fine. Let’s do this. But I don’t promise I won’t let Starscream have a piece of my mind for all this hassle.”

Then, despite Rodimus’ outrage for him, Megatron actually had the gall to roll his own optics at the declaration. 

“I would not advise that, Rodimus,” Minimus said with a twist of his mustache that Rodimus had slowly come to learn spoke to some egregious displeasure. “That would almost certainly lead to incarceration. On Starscream’s Cybertron you are no doubt just one foul word away from it.”

“That’s because he’s a tyrant,” Rodimus spat out. He waved to Megatron apologetically. “Again, no offense.”

That actually got a rise out of the large gray mech who put a hand over his optics and released a long, tired groan. 

“We’re already in the process of coming in for a landing,” Perceptor explained, flipping to his next datapad. “The situation was extreme and since some of the patients recovered – including Megatron – require immediate servicing I went ahead and approved it.”

Finally annoyed, Rodimus turned and leered at Perceptor. “Well then what are we even gathered here for? To let the previous captaincy know that we’re going to be dumped from the ship that _Drift_ bought?” he demanded. 

Perceptor gave an expectant look at him before glancing instead to Drift for an apparent cooler head. 

Drift didn’t budge, standing beside Rodimus however coolly instead. And that was just about enough to make Rodimus think that their short talk in the face of eminent death really _had_ been all that was needed.

“It is our understanding about the mutiny that the only ones who remained with the ship were those that agreed to the mutiny entirely,” Minimus explained, somewhat curtly even for himself. There were suspicious eyes on Perceptor all around. “Including Getaway’s plans to overthrow Rodimus _prior_ to Megatron’s addition to the crew, and the ultimate solutions of sacrificing Tailgate, then leaving us to the DJD.”

Perceptor’s head tilted back in acknowledgement. “Even if a large portion of the crew took back the ship from Getaway and circled back around to assist?” he asked evenly.

“Sorry, but barely more than half is not a large enough portion to leave me at ease,” Rodimus said angrily. “Especially since it still leaves the previous two charges unanswered, Perceptor.”

The Wrecker scowled before handing over a datapad. “I took charge because I was what was needed. I’ve served every ridiculous side mission we’ve been taken on since we launched dutifully, and I not only ensured this entire medbay’s rescue but have spent the last several hours negotiating with the homeworld that refused to take us back.” 

Flinching slightly at the words, Rodimus still took the datapad and looked over the ship mandate. 

“So what I brought the captain’s command together for here was to ask you to speak to your crew and decide what to do with us now that we’ve docked,” he answered. 

Rodimus glanced over the datapad then to Megatron for an answer. The mech answered with a thousand yard stare, looking well past any of them as he was lost in thought again. 

Grunting, Rodimus pinched the bridge between his optics. “Damn it,” he hissed. 

While the others watched him, Rodimus stormed over to the central computers of the medbay and ignored the testy calls of Minimus as he leaned over the dash. He could feel the optics of every bot in the room on him as he pressed the intercom, scanned his thumb, and proceeded to address the entirety of the ship over the messaging system.

“Lost Light, this is _Captain_ Rodimus speaking to you,” he said snappishly, earning looks of concerned from what remained of his main command. “It has come to my attention that we are landing on Cybertron. We will be caring for those who have been wounded or damaged in these recent events, and dealing with those _most_ responsible for causing harm to our crewmates. We will _also_ be allowing for the departure of those who have found that the Lost Light is no longer their home, for any reason. We will be staying for quite a while, so it’ll be a good time to evaluate whether or not this ship, this _crew_ , is where you find your home.”

He shuttered his optics and took a moment before opening them again, determined. “And if this is where we part, then I wish to say that I am grateful to all of you who have journeyed with me. But if you wish to stay, please still take this time to experience our rebuilding planet. Visit Maccadam’s. See friends. Stretch your treads. But don’t let it be forgotten that only _unity_ will be allowed for on the rest of our mission. We will not waste time and fuel on those who wish to harm that.” He took another moment before leaning into the mic one last time. “Captain out.”

With his finger off the button, Rodimus headed for the door. Drift came up alongside him. 

“Didn’t even have to write that one for you,” Drift joked. He waited for Rodimus to rib him back before growing tenser. “Where are you going? Velocity and Ratchet still haven’t been able to look you over–”

“I’m going to the prisoner exchange,” Rodimus said stiffly. “First thing first, I want those bots off our ship.”

Drift grew quiet for a moment before nodding. “Then let’s do that.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder toward the brig and Drift still did not seem to waver by Rodimus’ side. And that was _almost_ enough to not make him feel so sick about the state of his ship and the trust of his crew. _Almost._ It wasn’t enough to convince even Rodimus of the state of his leadership or of what would someday be his legacy. 

And that was the worst feeling of all.


	2. 1.2 Old Friends, New Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone who supported the first chapter! I’ve been very nervous and reluctant to post this story, basically being new to writing for the fandom and what not, so the support I got just was so surprising and honestly very inspiring. I can’t thank you all enough! I love writing big ensemble works and I know that those aren’t for everyone, but I hope the threads start lining up for readers starting with this chapter especially!
> 
> And special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, @crim-bat, Isame, and Monsun for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part I: Mask of the Red Death  
Chapter 1.2: Old Friends, New Enemies**

After the favorable ruling for Windblade, Chromia was prepared to move on to the next item on the cityspeaker’s ever growing agenda. Especially given the minor, terse exchanges between Windblade and the Prime, it was beyond Chromia’s wildest dreams that Windblade would be running into the Prime’s business.

At the end of the day, however, what made Chromia the bodyguard to Windblade was that she was the only bot who could handle the continuous testing Windblade gave her protectors’ limits. 

“I can hear you brooding from up here,” Windblade said in her altmode as they zipped across Metroplex and toward the city limits where the Lost Light was landing. “It isn’t a good look for you either.”

“I’ve always known you were bad at taking hints, Windblade,” Chromia admitted, “but I would’ve thought even _you_ would’ve taken notice that the Prime took off _without us_ as soon as he could when you turned around.”

From her own altmode on the roads below, Chromia watched Windblade stray slightly from her path in the air. Distracted by the prodding, or perhaps by the sight of the Lost Light ahead. 

It was, after all, one hell of a ship.

“We’re not going simply for Optimus, Chromia,” Windblade finally responded, speeding ahead as if to purposefully lose her bodyguard and friend. “Remember, Nautica and Velocity are there. Our _friends_ are on that ship. I hate to admit it, but the fact that I can vividly remember the last time I spoke one-on-one with _Rattrap_ but can’t think of the last time I shared even a greeting with either of our sorority sisters makes me feel downright dirty.”

Chromia grimaced at the thought and sped forward, keeping pace with the flyer. “I wouldn’t hate to admit that at all. Even to Rattrap’s face.” She kept a hidden smirk to herself. “Maybe the real solution here is that we need to never speak to Rattrap again. I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

Windblade sighed heavily. “I’m not really trying to joke about this. Not after what we saw,” she said, a haunted tone to her voice. 

Of course Chromia could not forget what they had witnessed on that horrid transmission. Not a single Cybertronian could forget it. 

Nor could the Camien forget the strike to her spark that was watching in realization as their own friends, their fellow Camiens, appeared among the roster giving chilling accounts of their death rites and final requests. And she would never forget the outrage she felt upon learning Starscream would order no search party once Wheeljack determined the transmission had been sent three weeks prior. 

“ _That_ is why I campaigned so hard for this, Chromia,” Windblade said again, strength and resolution returned to her vocalizer. “I can never justify not fighting my all for the sake of my friends.”

“And we’re all grateful for it, Windblade. _Truly,”_ Chromia assured her. “I’m just wondering if, after putting your neck out there, it’s so wise for you to be where drama is sure to follow.”

“Show some spark, friend,” Windblade countered. “Can’t let Starscream and the Prime have all the fun.”

With a heavy exvent, Chromia continued to follow. There was no denying it – Windblade _had_ to get a kick out of making her bodyguard’s job more difficult. 

On the outer edge of the city, nearing the port entrance, Windblade ducked down from her flightpath and began her transformation. Chromia followed suit, hardly stopping their progression forward in the time doing so. 

She did slow once Windblade did at the sight of two mechs – the delegate of Velocitron that Chromia recognized immediately as Knock Out, and a larger blue mech with quite a bit of bulk to him. 

“Knock Out,” Windblade called, bringing the ever-snide doctor’s attention to her. “I wasn’t expecting you to take interest in the Lost Light. At least not so personally.”

“I can be full of surprises like that,” he said with a wave of his sharp hand. “And I do suppose congratulations are in order for a movement yet again ruled in your favor at our counsel. My my, how that must rustle the tailpipes of certain vocal bots.”

The comment received a pleasant smile, if not forced, smile from Windblade, but Chromia merely crossed her arms. 

While there was no bot higher on her trouble list than the Cybertronian Chosen One, Chromia reserved a few spots. Knock Out had one. There was something about his attitude which had always rubbed Chromia the wrong way. 

Still, he wasn’t dumb and he wasn’t threatening to either Windblade or Chromia herself yet. But the big blue bruiser behind Knock Out was another thing entirely, and Chormia soon shifted her attention to the other instead. 

He was an unknown factor playing out in all of this action. 

Chromia’s shift had drawn Windblade’s attention to the other bot as well, and she crossed her hands over each other politely in front of her. “Hello, sorry to be rude and not introduce ourselves. I’m Windblade and this is Chroima. We’re from–”

“Camiens,” Knock Out interrupted, looking casually over his shoulder at the larger mech. “They’re from the Council. I’m sure I’ve complained about them once or twice.”

The other tilted his helm, an amused smirk crossing his face. “We talked about _not being rude,_ Knock Out.”

“And I’m doing a very good job of it,” he assured them before getting a firm nudge. “Alright, _alright.”_ He rolled his optics before waving from Windblade and Chromia to the blue mech. “This is my conjunx, Breakdown.”

The bluntness of the statement was enough to heat up Chroima’s faceplate. Most bots on Cybertron they had met carried a lot of tact in introducing spouses, though Chromia supposed it was completely foolish to presume as much from Knock Out given his running commentary in council proceedings. 

“We saw each other briefly on Chosen One Day,” Windblade said, realization teeming on her features. “It wasn’t much of an introduction, I must apologize. We were doing an errand for something thrown together that night. And I believe the two of you were on the move to get somewhere.”

"And it’s not much different now,” Knock Out interrupted, pede tapping impatiently before heading through the dock entrance. “Come on, Breakdown. No need to be late.”

Chromia watched as the two Velocitronians carried on in front of them and gave an expectant look toward Windblade. None too impressed with the show of manners on display.

Her fellow Camien, predictably, didn’t appear to be nearly as perturbed by the two and followed suit. 

“I would have never thought you’d be so concerned with the crew’s wellbeing to brave these crowds,” Windblade continued to press. 

Keeping close to Winblade once more became frustratingly difficult as the crowds of mech at the dock became thicker. Chromia shoved past everyone between herself and her charge, a few foul words and dirty looks exchanged for her troubles. It made the bodyguard wonder how her friend weaved through the crowd so easily until she noticed how Breakdown was clearing the path in front of both Windblade and Knock Out with his girth alone. 

“That’d be useful for a bodyguard,” Chromia mumbled to herself. 

“I _am_ a doctor you know,” Knock Out finally answered Windblade’s prying, giving her a smarmy sideways glance. 

There was a subtle glance held between Chromia and Windblade after the response. 

“He has been reading up on Cybertronian medicine and advancement made due to the war,” Breakdown informed them, an amused smirk on his face. “He’s been engrossed in it. Wants to meet the former Chief Medical Officers of both sides and poke their processors.”

Knock Out grew visibly flustered. “I want to question just _what_ they think they’re doing. So many ludicrous innovations. Do you know how many case logs I read that involved mismatched limbs and reappropriation of ornamentation for weapons. One speedster had his finial exchanged for a laser! Can you even imagine what that _drag_ that would cause–”

Chromia found the conversation growing into white noise to her audials and had to do another look over the crowd both for surveillance _and_ to keep her optics from offlining. Which was the only reason she saw Windblade breaking from their line and pushing into the crowd for another direction.

One filled with Starscream’s badgeless goons. 

“Wonderful,” Chromia grunted, turning directions and leaving the _riveting_ cosmetic discussions of the bonded Velocitronians to take up following after Windblade again. 

The closer she got, the more Chromia began to see what Windblade’s objectives were as she saw that to the side of one of the boarding ramps, Starscream and Optimus Prime were standing beside two mechs Chromia only faintly recognized. One of them was the large and imposing blue warrior mech and respected officer, Ultra Magnus, and the other was a spiky flame adorned speedster she recognized as the Lost Light’s captain. 

“The ruling was made _final,_ Rodimus. Though I hold the right to revoke it and go with the original plans of having you stock from _orbit,”_ Starscream could be heard declaring. 

The speedster was literally quivering when he pointed a finger at Starscream. “And _I’m_ telling _you_ that it would require me to acknowledge you’re authority, you backstabbing–”

“Rodimus,” both Ultra Magnus and Optimus said at once.

Windblade stopped at last and waited on Chromia to reach her side. She was sharing a surprised expression at this Rodimus’ gall. 

“Someone has steel bearings,” Chromia observed lowly, earning a smirk from Windblade. “I might like this mech.”

“Not too much, I hope,” Windblade whispered. “Speaking to Starscream like that, _in public_ no less, is bound to get him arrested knowing the Chosen One.”

“Yeah,” Chromia shrugged. “I think it’d just make me like him all the more. He can join our club.”

The four mechs they were watching intently grew quiet and turned to watch the unloading of several cuffed Cybertronians, surrounded by a combination of badgeless as well as what must have been Lost Light crew members. 

As the procession passed by, Ultra Magnus released a visible exvent and looked down to the datapad in hand. Chromia couldn’t help but think it looked comically small in his oversized hands. 

“And that _should_ be the last of the prisoners. I am transferring a list of charges as well as the evidence for and against each,” Magnus informed Starscream.

“Obviously not _all_ prisoners,” Starscream snapped petulantly. 

Rodimus ground his denta. “You know what, Starscream? How about I–”

The speedster stopped as Optimus Prime placed a broad hand on his shoulder and held him in spot. Rodimus’ head lowered and he stewed in silence instead. 

“Tensions have been high,” Optimus said deeply. “And we still have many things to straighten out. Let us not say or do things we will regret. Not when our friends need time to heal. To feel peace. We have – _all_ of us – been through much.”

There was a bitter laugh from Rodimus and he pulled from the Prime’s hand to head toward the crowd. “Sure, Optimus. _Everyone_ knows what we’ve been through.”

Optimus uncharacteristically held his ground, watching Rodimus carefully while Ultra Magnus let out a loud sigh. 

“That _is not_ what he said, Rodimus,” Magnus called, though he made no move to stop the captain or to reassure the Prime, hiding instead behind another datapad. 

Chromia felt awkward and intrusive having overheard the exchange that had nothing to do with them. She was more than ready to leave and look for another way to clear the crowd and locate their fellow Camiens among the exiting Lost Light crew.

However, true to form, Windblade was making a move to do the opposite.

The jet moved to stand in front of Rodimus, earning a curious look from the Lost Light’s captain. 

“Hello, I’m Windblade. I’ve briefly met your crew before,” she said. “And this is Chromia. We’re friends of Nautica and Velocity.”

Understanding registered on Rodimus’ face and he nodded stiffly. “Right,” he said. “They’re alive. On the ship. Or unloading from it. I’m sorry, I can’t point you in the right direction. I need to meet someone right now.”

“Thank you,” Windblade said as Rodimus passed them both. 

Chromia watched as the flicker came into Windblade’s optics and her expression changed from politeness and meekness to determination. It was that tell-tale sign of the cityspeaker making another move in her head. 

“What was that all about?” Chromia asked, crossing her arms. “And are we ever going to _actually_ get to checking on our friends?”

“Starscream is worried about him,” Windblade said.

Tilting her head, Chromia attempted to understand. “Worried about who?”

“Rodimus,” Windblade said thoughtfully. “I thought it was Megatron and not wanting more Autobot loyalists on Cybertron, that it was more than enough to explain Starscream not wanting the ship here. But it’s Rodimus, too. Didn’t you see how they acted around each other.” Windblade turned her gaze fully to Chromia. “He’s worried about Rodimus for some reason. And I think if we found out what that reason is will give us another advantage on Starscream.”

“Well we _do_ need every one that we can get,” Chromia admitted. “But tread lightly, Windblade. We’ve broken some of our alliances already. Some _important_ ones.”

The cityspeaker glanced toward where Optimus Prime was still talking, now in more hushed tones. It was apparent that Rodimus had been the one to set the volume of the previous conversation. 

"The Prime didn’t exactly side with us this morning,” Chromia continued. “And that’s a powerful voice to not have with us.”

“I understand that, Chromia, but it’s not as if he sided _against_ us either,” Windblade replied sternly. “There _are_ repercussions to be had from not helping Optimus Prime with the council decision before, I know that, but I don’t believe I have lost a friend.” She looked to Chromia and motioned toward another dock of the Lost Light. “And I don’t intend on testing my luck with any others. Come on. Let’s find Nautica and Velocity.”

Giving a tired smile, Chromia stepped in line. “Of course, Windblade.” 

* * *

Arguing with Prime was enough like beating his helm against a wall, but adding Ultra Magnus to the mix caused more grief than Starscream’s processor could take. It wasn’t long into it all that he actually longed for having the fiery Rodimus back in the conversation. 

At least the speedster was easily tripped up when it came to a battle in parle. 

“There is no _legal_ reason to prevent free passage of crew onto Cybertron,” Ultra Magnus said with the exhausting straight face look he had been giving Starscream since landing. “Particularly since a good portion of the ship is considering relocation and residence to Cybertron after the recent events.”

Prime, ever more direct, stood firmly beside the other Autobot. “You have already lost the battle of barring the ship itself, Starscream. Give up this flawed attempt to secure _some_ fleeting since of victory on the matter.”

“You heard this ship’s captain, there are some two hundred bots on this ship, most of whom do not recognize the authority of the official and elected leader of the Cybertronian people!” Starscream bit back.

“You’re a real leader now, Starscream,” Prime said darkly. “That means not being liked more times than not, by more bots than not. My advice to you _is to get used to it.”_

Starscream balked, turning slightly away from the Autobots in his presence. “As if any advice on leadership from the bot who won all of Cybertron only to let it slip through his servos amount to much advice at all.” 

Optics narrowed, Prime placed his servos on his hips. “I will take that to mean you have admitted you cannot feasibly keep back your fellow Cybertronians any longer.”

“Take it to mean whatever you want, Prime,” Starscream snapped. “Just know that I have seen the charter of this starship as well as its crew manifest. And I know that they are filled to the port with troublemakers, gamblers, mean drunks, and untried criminals. They show that behavior on _my_ Cybertron and they will be met with swift justice and _extreme_ prejudice.”

"Slander against others because they once or still serve the beliefs of the Autobot cause is not something that will hand you good standing with your public, Starscream,” Prime warned with the condescending tone Starscream despised the most. 

Ultra Magnus sagged slightly only to lean closer to the Autobot’s leader. “In truth, it’s not _really_ slander, I’m afraid, Optimus. When we initially left, Rodimus was determinedly not choosy in our acceptance of crew.” He paused before grimacing slightly as he came up with an example. “Whirl is among our numbers.”

“Ah,” the Prime said. “I had wondered where he had been.” The cool blue optics of the Prime then bothered to turn on Starscream yet again. “Regardless, Starscream, the crew is already leaving the ship and mingling with our people.”

“ _My_ people,” Starscream growled out. “And don’t you forget it, Prime.”

When it was clear that the Prime was done speaking, Starscream held in a final snarl and turned from the Autobots. Without warning or farewell one, he leaped into transformation and took off into the air, ignoring the crowding from other various flyers coming to and away from the Lost Light.

It probably would have been a sign of a good leader had Starscream stayed and overseen the reunion of his subjects personally, but there was only _so_ much obnoxious air from Autobots that he could tolerate.

En route to his command, Starscream opened a communication channel with Rattrap instead.

“Oh, what is it, your lordship?” Rattrap’s smarmy voice heckled over the line. 

“Rattrap, get to the Lost Light and make sure things run _smoothly._ And keep an eye out for activity from Megatron,” Starscream demanded without pretense. “I want him taken out by the guard if he so much as plants a pede on an off ramp.”

“Sure thing!” Rattrap responded, sounding _genuinely_ eager to fulfill the order for once rather than simply sucking up. “But, uh, I thought that’s what _you_ were doing this whole time ‘n stuff.”

"Well now _you’re_ doing it, aren’t you?” Starscream fired back. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right there. Consider me as good as _there._ I was there a whole minute ago already–”

Annoyed and more than ready to enjoy the rest of his flight with auditory seclusion, Starscream cut communication between them and refocused on the skies. 

Below Starscream was an entire planet at his command, and yet at times like these he felt like the only thing fully bowing to his whims was the air itself. It was the feelings of a true Seeker at spark.

He considered giving himself more time to think over options of how to continue forward, but as he crossed some of the larger buildings in Metroplex’s central district, Starscream noticed a very unusual light shining. 

At first it seemed to be just something reflecting off the surface of a building not far from Maccadam’s and he paid it no mind. But twice, ten seconds apart exactly, it shifted to shine directly on him, then went out again before starting the same pattern. 

It had to be deliberate, given how it followed his flight pattern. 

Starscream was immediately suspicious, but he still approached. There was _something_ amiss about the situation, but he’d be damned if anyone else tested him that day and he failed to prove his leadership. 

Landing on the building, Starscream scanned the area with his optics calmly, transforming and moving with a slight canter. 

If it was truly nothing, he would still send some badgeless to investigate the building later just for assurances. 

But, as it were, Starscream stopped and faced the shadows of the building and saw a large form, bulkier and taller than the Prime himself. 

“Alright,” Starscream said, taking a cautionary step back in spite of his confident delivery. “You have gained you leader’s attention. I hope you use it wisely. I have not been in the best of moods.”

"It is understandable, Chosen One,” the mech in shadows said with a voice that was deep and calm. He stepped forward, more into the light, revealing a crimson and black paint job. He was large, and judging by the kibble a land based altmode. “I am hoping my offered services will aid in making your day better.”

Starscream looked over the bot skeptically, expecting to find an insignia one way or the other but coming up with none. Only written glyphs on his arms which were ancient enough that the leader of Cybertron could recognize them, but not read them.

“Tsk,” Starscream muttered with a roll of his optics. “Colonists and their dying customs.” He coughed into his servo to put on an air of confidence as he lightly approached. “While your eagerness to help me will be noted…” he paused expectantly for a designation.

The yellow eyes of the mech flickered intently. “Error.”

Tilting his helm, Starscream couldn’t help the smile that split across his faceplate. “A name which, of course, instills that much more confidence in your bold offer.” He then turned and waved off the mech as he headed toward the rooftop’s edge. “Your glorious Lord and Leader will remember your designation should he ever require to call upon it.”

“You misunderstand me, Lord Starscream,” Error said in the same stern voice, stepping closer. “My offer is to give you a plan in motion.” 

Intrigued, Starscream turned to Error and hummed slightly. “Hm. A plan? _What_ kind of plan?”

“You are rightfully worried about those who have been boarded on the starship the Lost Light. The types of mechs who would willingly follow a leader like Rodimus Prime,” Error said lowly.

“He is _not_ a Prime!” Starscream snapped. “Let’s not give further ego where it isn’t due, Error.”

“And you are concerned about any growth of the hold the former Decepticon leader has. Physical restriction alone, as you know, will not reduce the wide reach of your former lord’s charisma,” Error continued unfazed. 

"What _exactly_ is it that you are offering me, Error? A lesson in Cybertronian history?” Starscream asked impatiently. “I don’t require it. I have _lived_ it – the parts that are relevant.”

“Indeed you have,” Error acknowledged with a smirk. “My offer is that of optics on the inside. Of a voice capable of providing you detailed information of the Lost Light _and_ of the particular subjects of the crew which have your interests.”

“A plant,” Starscream said, hand at his chin. He had already considered a plant himself, but had not been able to think of anyone trusted with the task. Error’s mysterious introduction and ridiculous name did little to change that about the situation. “I find I must ask, how much of a plant do you expect to be given your… aptitude for gaining attention.” He waved to Error’s form.

A sharp tooth smile grew on Error’s face and he placed a hand over his spark. “I will not be your plant, I fear for that very reason. My _associate,_ however, is already working on gaining a spot upon the roster. And they are a mech who, shall we say, has an aptitude for not being noticed. To the point that even in a crowded room they could… _remove_ certain would-be tyrants from our leader’s growing list of concerns.”

The instant the intentions were clear, Starscream’s optics widened and he rushed forward to stop Error from speaking further. He looked around the roof and fortunately found nothing other than his new crimson friend out of the ordinary. 

“This conversation has never happened,” Starscream warned. “I have no knowledge of these plans. I have no response to give you on them.” He paused and gave a winning grin to the mech. “However, should there ever be such a bot in place on the Lost Light, it would be only fitting that occasional… _updates of status_ were shared with the leader of all of Cybertron.”

Error nodded and backed into the shadows. “Of course, Lord Starscream. Of course.”

Starscream watched as the shadows covered Error then, without warning, there was a blast of smoke in the area. And Error was no longer there.

The Chosen One stared, befuddled, for a moment, before crossing his arms and huffing. 

“Well, aren’t _we_ dramatic,” he mocked.

* * *

Ratchet had no intention of leaving the medbay during the initial loading and unloading. There was a lot of chaos surrounding it all, he had Velocity and First Aid to run errands as he saw fit, and most importantly he had nearly every berth filled with bots who required real attention from him. 

He was no longer acting CMO, and in the back of his processor he knew he was stepping all over First Aid’s pedes, but it was hard to explain to others what it meant to be one of the group who had made it off the Necrobot’s planet. 

While Ratchet himself wasn’t abandoned by the mutiny, he had been patching up the survivors since before the Percy-led Lost Light returned for them. And it mattered very little to his fellow survivors whether or not First Aid had even been on the Lost Light when the mutiny took place, the trust was severely broken between their group and those who were outside of it. 

They only wanted Ratchet and Velocity to tend to them, and Velocity was surprisingly good for her limited time as a doctor but she still needed rest. Ratchet had been a field medic in the war, it’d been a long time since rest was a luxury he had been afforded.

He flipped through datapads carelessly, looking at the updated scans and readouts of the medical equipment and mentally sorting patients based on need, when there was a noticeable clamor outside the medbay door. 

“Someone passed out. Only question is if it was Magnus, Drift, or Rodimus first,” he mused as he headed over to check it out for himself. 

The halls were crowded with crew trying to get out and explore their homeworld, but as Ratchet pushed his way through grouchily he was surprised to find the hall splitting down the middle. And as he looked up he could see why. 

Optics wide, Ratchet stood as his oldest friend approached. “Optimus,” he managed to get out.

“Hello, old friend,” Optimus said back, doing a good job of ignoring the wonder and attentiveness of the various bots in the hall. “I was hoping to speak to you now that the Lost Light is back on Cybertron.”

It took a moment for the words to hit home, but soon Ratchet nodded and ushered Optimus toward his – _First Aid’s_ – office. 

“You better believe we’re talking,” Ratchet replied curtly, not giving Optimus time to object even if he wanted to. “Like how I didn’t even know you were _on_ Cybertron.”

The door had barely closed behind them but Optimus already eased up without the prying of other eyes. He exvented and looked Ratchet over. “It is a development of just the past day.”

“I heard you were on Earth,” Ratchet said, square his jaw as he put his servos on his hips. “There’s Decepticons invading Earth again? After everything that has happened before?”

Optimus shifted uncomfortably at the question and crossed his arms across his broad chassis. “I fear it is even more complicated than that, Ratchet.”

“It always is,” Ratchet said, scowl deepening.

The last time Decepticons had made a move on Earth, it had cost everyone dearly, though few losses stuck as close to home for the old mech as their human friends. Of Hunter O’nion. 

“I was relieved to hear you were well,” Optimus said stiffly. “I was not aware you had been part of the… _away party_ before speaking to Ultra Magnus. You hadn’t been on the recording we received.”

“Bah,” Ratchet huffed. “That thing has caused nothing but chaos. If we’d thought to stop it before we left the Necrobot’s planet it would’ve spared us at least _half_ the deliberation it took for Perceptor to get us on Cybertron. Everyone saw that thing and now thinks they know what we went through.”

A certain softness came to Optimus’ optics as he shook his helm. “Quite the opposite, Ratchet. Though I am grateful for it in that it inspired my return so that I could meet with you and learn of the ordeal.”

“Not all my story to tell,” Ratchet said truthfully. “I wasn’t kicked off the ship – Drift and I came upon the Decepticon war party as it initiated its attack. We had been on the way back from the Lost Light and met up there, helped with the final stand. Helped face the DJD. I mended who I could when I could. And I’ve been about the only one besides Velocity – Camien bot, she’s got decent hands for a sparkling – that the other survivors will let deal with them.” He glanced back to Optimus meaningfully. “We’re back. Not sure where we’re going from here. Not sure if the ship even _has_ a _we_ anymore.”

The information hung between them for a moment. Optimus tilted his chin down, optics distant with thought as he considered it all. 

Ratchet knew it was a lot to take in, but living on the Lost Light as he had, he’d gotten fairly good at accepting things without understanding detail. The _details_ were often enough what drove so many of the ship mad at the end of the day. 

But like he was with everything else, Optimus was concerned and thoughtful about it. And _burdened_ , for reasons beyond Ratchet.

“As much as I have grievances with following command from Rodimus – and _especially_ take umbrage with the idea that Megatron can think he can throw an order my way – they actually got us through quite the ordeal back there,” Ratchet continued. 

When Optimus didn’t refocus on the medic, Ratchet let out a tired sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose before turning fully to the Autobot leader again. 

“I know you and Rodimus had words – more than a few, actually – last time we all ended up on Cybertron,” Ratchet informed him. “ _I_ had words with him, too. More or less the same words about the slag he just plain got wrong the first time around.” That was enough to get Optimus to actually look at him. “And I left ship, literally, for a good while there for a few reasons. But even before I left, and especially _now_ after coming back, I’ve seen change in him. The kind of change that only happens by force of will, when someone actually takes to spark that they were _wrong._ So if you’re worried about the faith you placed in the kid, don’t be.”

Optimus’ head tilted back in surprise. “I was not doubting that.”

“Really?” Ratchet snorted, sitting back on his – _First Aid’s_ – desk. “Could’ve fooled me.”

"It’s Megatron,” Optimus clarified. “I doubt I made the right call with putting him in charge.”

Squinting at Optimus, Ratchet narrowly avoided the impulse to grab one of First Aid’s trinkets to throw at the big rig’s head. “Of _course_ you should be doubting that decision. It was utterly ridiculous and asking for problems.”

That brought all of Optimus’ attention back to Ratchet. “Then he _did_ do something in this time?”

Ratchet stared back evenly. “No, he made decent enough calls. Fought with Rodimus left and right. Up and down – they didn’t see optic to optic very often. At first.”

“But then,” Optimus pressed.

“I wasn’t here for a lot of things, Optimus. I keep telling you this,” Ratchet stressed. “But they are more or less on the same page these days. Honestly, I think Rodimus might confide in Megatron more than Ultra Magnus, for better or worse.” 

At that news, Optimus could not have looked more rocked to his core. “What?” he asked thickly. 

It has been a while since Ratchet had heard the temper flare up in Optimus’ voice. Since his ascension to Prime, Ratchet had watched his friend develop a more distant and thoughtful persona outside of battle. But if there were any parties capable of bringing it back out of him, it was Megatron and Rodimus.

Both of the mechs seemed to have that effect on everyone, though.

"Careful,” Ratchet warned, watching as Optimus actually paced. “This was a good thing. It kept the slaggers from destroying each other every time they were within arm’s reach.”

“It is more than about them,” Optimus replied shortly, looking Ratchet’s way. “I am facing the real possibility that not a solitary decision I have made since we lost Bumblebee has been right.”

The bare mention of Bumblebee was enough to make Ratchet’s spark skip. He shuttered his optics and lowered his head and exvented before looking back up to Optimus. “Then take heed of your own advice here, Optimus,” Ratchet said simply. “Learn from your mistakes. Do something about them. Don’t make them again.”

Optimus gave him an unimpressed glance and seemed ready to respond when brash knocking on the office door interrupted them both. 

For a moment, Ratchet glared at the door, as if daring it to be knocked on again, when sure enough the knocking happened and forced the doctor to grind his denta as he approached it. 

He punched the door controls, sending it sliding open and revealing the still near grayed, heavily damaged Chromedome standing despite the desperate attempts of the tinier Rewind to pull him back toward the medbay berths.

“And just _what_ are you doing off the slab?” Ratchet demanded.

“We’re sorry, Ratchet, we’ll be right back on it,” Rewind offered. “Come on, Domey, let’s talk about this a little longer–”

“I need it done now,” Chromedome said morosely, his golden optics on Ratchet. “I need someone to remove the needles. I can’t have them anymore after what happened on the Necrobot’s planet. I _won’t._ Ratchet, can you just disable them now?”

Ratchet could see in his periphery that Optimus’ curiosity was piqued, but Ratchet had little time to entertain his old friend with Chromedome coming to him so visibly disturbed. Instead of debating, Ratchet reached out and took Chromedome’s hand, looking it over and examining the fingers. 

“Get back on your berth – your _separate_ berths, you two – and I’ll do what I can for a temporary decommissioning of them,” Ratchet promised. “And when your color’s improved, I’ll do it more permanently. How does that sound?”

Chromedome looked visibly relieved and allowed himself to be pulled away by Rewind. 

With a long sigh, Ratchet ran his hand over his helm before moving around First Aid’s desk and grabbing some supplies to begin the miniature operation. He didn’t have to look up to know that Optimus’ sights followed him. 

“He is asking you to remove his ability to perform mneumosurgery,” Optimus observed. “I thought that Chromedome was the best mneumosurgeon we had in the ranks.”

“A lot’s happened,” Ratchet said once more, each word feeling more tired even to him. He looked up wearily to his old friend. “Not every story is for everyone to know, and the cost knowing too much is great. I believe Chromedome’s learned that the difficult way one too many times over. This is a good step for him.”

“If you say so, old friend,” Optimus said, returning to the distant tone and looks that had aged him so much in the years after the war.

“I do,” Ratchet said, shutting the desk drawer after grabbing what he needed. 

There was a part of him that wanted to wonder out loud how many of the rest of them were prepared to take their own first steps. But he kept it quiet. Optimus wasn’t listening anymore anyway. 


	3. 1.3 And With Progress Comes Cost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out! It took me a bit to get into the full swing of this chapter since it involved a bit of a passage of time to get into the main plot of Part I, but now that we’re here I think you all are going to be interested in seeing some familiar friends from one of my favorite arcs of More than Meets the Eye : ) 
> 
> And special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, Isame, and Monsun for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part I: Mask of the Red Death  
Chapter 1.3: And With Progress Comes Cost**

There was a general frustration on the streets that Drift was overly concerned about as he traveled through Metroplex. The vibrations of the EM Fields as he passed along the city were generally of confusion and discontent rather than the unhappy blurred mixture he expected from the most populated center left of Cybertron. 

It did encapsulate something Drift had learned during his brief time in Crystal City: if a community agreed to feel any particular way, it was probably an agreement to be dissatisfied. 

Still, he took his time investigating the city in his altmode, knowing that it would take a lot for him to ever be in a position where _Rodimus_ was waiting on _him_ rather than the other way around considering the flare for fighting his friend had showed when they stepped off the Lost Light and were greeted by Starscream himself. 

It also gave Drift the opportunity to see how Cybertron had changed, how their four million years of fighting and the time spent looking into their past for answers, had left their homeworld. 

Driving through the tagged neighborhoods with Decepticon purple, and seeing the distaste thrown his way by any bots with a badge in the area when they locked upon his white and red paint, told Drift that things hadn’t changed all _that_ much really. And he wasn’t sure if it was just what he expected or slightly more disappointing.

While in his new altmode and frame, Drift doubted that any Decepticons would recognize him readily, but he still left the neighborhood as quickly as he could manage just out of that concern. 

Far enough away that the common state of badges was _not having one_ as opposed to wearing Decepticon proudly, Drift transformed to botmode and began walking among the various nonaffiliated Cybertronians and colonists instead. 

Not that it kept the obvious glances to the badge on his chest  at a minimum either way. 

There was an uncomfortable shift between the allegiances on Cybertron that Drift didn’t know how to quite accept. All it did was confirm with him that the initial choice made by himself and the Lost Light to leave was most likely the best one. 

He wasn’t so sure there was a home for them here. At least not yet. 

Drift walked the streets calmly and, just as he had imagined, still managed with all his distractions and sightseeing to make it to Maccadam’s Old Oil House before Rodimus. It was enough to elicit a sigh out of him.

It took a lot of energy from Drift to maintain normalcy and comfort around the bot who was once his closest friend. It wasn’t that he had been disingenuous when he told Rodimus that he was forgiven, both for allowing him to take the fall for Overlord and for not coming after him. 

In his long life, Drift had made more than enough mistakes himself, more than he could ever accuse other bots of outdoing. 

But it didn’t make the past disappear. He wanted to be like they used to be, an inseparable duo, and Drift felt like that desire alone should have been enough to make it so. 

Things changed to the point of being unrecognizable, and not just with him but with Rodimus as well. 

Just like Cybertron. 

Still content to simply outside for Rodimus to show, Drift was beginning to find a nonintrusive place on the sidewalk outside the bar when he couldn’t help but notice that there were notices and ads posted on the wall near him. They didn’t make a whole lot of sense overall – work and odd jobs solicits, some governmental notices. 

A face stood out, however. And Drift found himself walking to the wall and crossing his arms as he realized that he was staring at a _WANTED_ poster.

“Prowl,” he said out loud.

His thoughts didn’t have much time to manifest beyond that as there was a loud and familiar engine rumble from the streets that drew Drift’s attention instead. 

Rodimus _did_ enjoy his dramatic entrances. 

The flaming speedster transformed without missing a beat, his momentum taking him right to Drift’s side even from the road and drawing more than a few looks from the various bots in the area. Which gave some extra broadness to Rodimus’ signature smile. 

“What, am I late?” he asked, as if Drift couldn’t sense the waves of frustration and anger radiating from his field a mile away. 

“Only as much as usual,” Drift joked back.

“I owe it to my sense of style to keep you guessing,” Rodimus replied airily as he stepped up to Drift’s side and brought his servo to his chin. He hummed a bit, leaning in and looking through the ads. “Lot of jobs to get done in the city. Bet some of the crew would love to jump on these instead of take up some of Magnus’ mandated duties.”

Drift tilted his head curiously at the captain and crossed his arms. “That the most interesting thing you see on the wall?”

“The most interesting thing about the help ads is that there’s not one for the most obvious job that needs to be filled,” Rodimus responded without missing a beat. “Where’s the number I call for replacing Starscream? I’d _love_ to see the list of requirements for that one. I predict they begin _and_ end with ‘Not Starscream.’”

“I see your talk went well,” Drift mused. “But that wasn’t exactly what I was talking about either.”

For a moment, Rodimus seemed like he was searching for _anything_ of interest on the wall to talk about other than the one piece of information Drift was getting at. But when that seemed to fail him, he straightened up and put his servos on his hips with a strong vent of air. 

“Oh, look. It’s Prowl,” Rodimus said in an oddly forced, flat tone. 

Drift waited a moment before waving to the poster. “It’s a _WANTED_ poster. For Prowl.”

For a moment Rodimus just stared back at Drift before his optics shined with realization and his head whipped back to the wall. He then looked at Drift. “Whoa! What? When’d this happen?”

"Assumedly since we left,” Drift said back.

“Okay, no need to be a smart aft,” Rodimus muttered, reaching for the poster and tearing it off the wall to look at it more, no regards for the fact that it was probably posted for a good reason. “Weird how things change, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Drift asked cautiously. 

“Well, it’s not really bene that long ago since Prowl was one of the most respected Autobots and a confidante to Optimus Prime himself,” Rodimus said, optics scanning over the paper between his servos. “And Megatron was the _number one bad_ in the whole universe.” Rodimus’ scowled slightly. “And even last time we were on Cybertron, Prowl’s whole pushing us for the Overlord thing was revealed, but it wasn’t like there was anything to make him personally dirty back then. There wasn’t any call for his arrest more than there would be for mine…”

For a moment, Drift thought of just allowing Rodimus’ statements teeter off, but he couldn’t keep it completely inside anymore. 

“I wasn’t with you when the Lost Light came to Cybertron,” Drift reminded him coolly. “I didn’t realize the others knew Prowl was involved.”

Rodimus’s head hung slightly and he wadded the poster between his servos. 

“Yeah,” he said, quiet for his usual bombastic tone. “Yeah, I know you weren’t. I’m…” Rdimus stopped himself short and threw back his helm, a long sigh escaping his vents as he looked up at the Cybertronian skies. 

There was a silent agreement between them still. That they wouldn’t have anymore apologies crowding their conversations. 

With a small smile, Drift reached forward and patted Rodimus’ shoulder. “I could use some high grade, I don’t know about you.” 

Looking back, Rodimus carried a smile as well – not the flashy one that he put on to show off his denta, but the infrequent little one. The real one. “I hear there’s a decent place for that nearby.”

Without further hesitation, they crossed into the Oil House and were unsurprised to find it decently filled with patients already. There was a healthy mix of badges as well as those who carried all sorts of unaffiliated marks from either noninvolvement in the war or origins in distant colonies returned. 

Drift found them all fascinating and hoped for a beat that they would be on Cybertron long enough for him to begin to tell the various colonists apart. Their cultures seemed fascinating. 

Rodimus was less interested in the crowds and instead pulled them both toward the nearest empty booth and settled for what was rather obviously the more comfortably looking seat. 

Rolling his optics in good humor, Drift took the opposing seat and looked toward the menu. 

“What’s the heaviest on there?” Rodimus asked, immediately grabbing a handful of energon chips as a serving droid dropped them off. 

Looking through the menu calmly, Drift couldn’t help but smirk. “You can’t handle the _heaviest_ drinks, Captain. You’re still recovering from medical-grade energon in your system.”

Said captain squinted his optics at Drift. “Is that a challenge?”

Before Drift could formulate an answer, there was a blur of blue motion just by their table, causing both Lost Lighters to nearly jump at the ready for a fight. 

Drift and Rodimus both found themselves ducking forward as their shoulders were swiftly smacked and a high speed laughter filled their audials. They glanced at each other as it became obvious that the blur beside them was actually a _Blurr._

“Whoo boy,” Rodimus said, grabbing some more energon chips.

“WowIJustCan’tBelieveIt!EveryoneOnCybertronSawThoseRecordingsAndThoughtYouWereAllDead–IKnewYouCouldn’tBeThere’sBeenTooManyCloseCallsInThePastToBelieveSomeRenegadeDecepticonsWouldFinishDriftandHotRodOff!” There was a momentary hesitation and Blurr smacked Rodimus’ shoulder again, causing the bot to choke on his energon chips. “SorryAboutThat!IKnowYou’reProudToGoByRodimusNow.Can’tSayIBlameYou!SayWhatWereThoseRecordingsAllAbout?IBetYouAllHaveTonsOfStoriesToGiveUs!”

Rodimus groaned in aggravation, reaching for napkins to wipe the energon chips off his forearm. And as much as he was bragging about taking on some high grade, Drift could see pretty clearly the captain was looking a little muted in his color still.

Smiling, Drift sat more upright in his seat. “It’s a pleasure to see you doing well, Blurr. I don’t believe we’ve had time to really catch up since leaving Earth. I’d love to play a game of Go with you again.”

Blurr’s face lit up. “Drift,MyBot,AsSoonAsI’mNotOnDuty,I’llTakeYouUpOnThat!”

“Alright, Blurr, you might be surrounded by other speedsters, but I’m definitely going to have to ask you to take it down a notch,” Rodimus said, feigning amusement even though his fields were fraught with determination on some other matter. Drift couldn’t help but tilt his helm in curiosity at the bizarre emotions coming from his friend. 

“RightRight,” Blurr said, throwing a head up to his forehelm. “What can I say? Seeing somemech you spent a few weeks thinking were dead brings some excitement to the place. Not that Cybertron has managed to be anything other than _exciting_ lately.”

"That happens when a planet elects an meglomaniac,” Rodimus said dryly.

Drift frowned and glanced around the bar toward the various Decepticon badge wearers. “Easy, Rodimus.”

Blurr laughed, sped up but more controlled than before. “That opinion’s not so unwelcome here by any of my patrons, Drift. I assure you. In fact, it might be the one place you can get away with saying it out loud. I won’t let Badgeless in the door.”

Thoughtfully, Drift brought a servo to his chin. “So that excitement you mentioned? Not so much the political arena as it is the social? I can’t imagine it’s easy for so many newly meeting cultures and mechs to be coming together all at once and so suddenly. Especially with Cybertron already living a fairly divided culture as it were.”

“It’s interesting,” Blurr nodded before waving to the bar. “And I get front seat to the best and worst of it, of course. But I haven’t met too many colonists that I wouldn’t trust. They’re usually more sociable and gracious than Cybertronians, if you believe it. Quirky as they get.”

“We’d believe it,” Drift replied. “There were some colonists among the crew, as I understand it.”

Rodimus’ gaze was set on the bowl of energon chips as he reached for a last handful. “Right now I trust two Camiens more than half the crew. They’re good bots.”

The comment’s weight was lost on Blurr, but Drift watched Rodimus tiredly. It was as he had feared – the hurt from the mutiny was more of an open wound than any of the damages Ratchet had yet to get to. 

When the silence had carried a beat too many for his liking, Rodimus turned enough in his seat to force that broad grin on Blurr. “Got anything good to share with old friends back behind that bar?”

“No,” Blurr smirked. “But paying customers are another thing!” And immediately he disappeared to get just that.

With their company gone, Drift refocused on Rodimus and steepled his servos together as he leaned his elbows on the table. He hummed lowly, watching Rodimus squirm under the gaze.

“ _What?”_ Rodimus asked.

“I simply believe you will begin to feel better if you share how you are feeling,” Drift advised. 

“Prove it,” Rodimus huffed. 

“I’m sure Ring would agree,” Drift said, a small smile on his face.

Rodimus’ optics narrowed and he looked back to the bowl, swirling a digit through the energon chip crumbs. “ _Rung,”_ Rodimus corrected grouchily. “It’s not so funny anymore. He’s one of us.”

“You need to stop that,” Drift warned.

“Stop what?” 

“The separation – the _them_ and _us,”_ Drift explained calmly. “You gave your speech for every bot on the ship to hear. And whether they faced the DJD with us or not at the end of the cycle the ones who stay on the ship are doing so with the absolute acknowledgement that you are their captain and that will be your ship. If you’re worried about unity – and you _are_ – further dividing ourselves before we take off gets us nowhere.”

Leaning onto one of his hands, Rodimus brought his optics back to focus on Drift. “Remember back when you just agreed with everything I said?”

“Yes,” Drift said simply. “Do you miss that?”

“No,” Rodimus said, though it wasn’t with his usual confidence. “I’m just saying… Things change. And it’s not always bad. And I actually feel like listening to _your_ advice. When I hear the things that come out of Megatron’s mouth or Ratchet’s or, god, _Ultra Magnus,_ I kind of tend to tune out.”

“I assure you that _everybot_ has noticed,” Drift joked. He hummed again. “Though now you have me thinking we’re possibly talking about _another_ kind of change.”

Rodimus frowned as he finally met Drift’s optics again. “Yeah,” he answered. “I think we need to find the Knights of Cybertron. Like _really_ now.”

Confused, Drift cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean? Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“It’s more like we’ve been doing anything _but,_ actually,” Rodimus pointed out, though Drift supposed it was an accomplishment in itself that the captain was aware of the point. “And as much as I’ll maintain that there was some definite divinity in the fact that _I_  was able to subconsciously draw that map on my desk…” He paused and rubbed his face roughly, as if the next bit was physically painful to say out loud. “And that _Thunderclash_ drew the same.” He peered through his fingers to continue. “It’s not been getting us nowhere fast.”

“Anywhere,” Drift corrected.

“Drift, I will _totally_ take you giving me unsolicited advice. I don’t even let Ultra Magnus correct my grammar,” Rodimus reminded him.

“Noted,” Drift said. “But I need to point out that following your map has been the biggest clue the Lost Light has had since, well, _starting_ the quest. If that’s not the direction to go to speed things up, then what _will_ be when it all comes down to it?”

“I’ve got a plan for that,” Rodimus said, a shine to his optics. “While we’re here resupplying and generally mucking around Cybertron, we’ve got plenty of access to various Cybertronian points of view from all over the universe.”

Drift’s helm tipped back in thought. “You think we should go around asking the colonists for clues.”

“I think we should go around asking the colonists for clues,” Rodimus confirmed with a firm nod. “That and recruiting more bots for the ship–”

“You want to _actively_ recruit again? We don’t even know how many bots are leaving,” Drift reminded him. “Do you really think it’s going to be that many?” 

“I think it’s sizable enough,” Rodimus replied with a disappointed vibe sparking from him. “But… That shouldn’t bother us. We just need to keep moving forward.”

There was a lot of stipulation with that, Drift was sure. But before he could manage to fully process a response, there was a vocalizer clearing behind him. 

Immediately, Drift felt himself drop on edge and he turned to look at just what mech had managed to sneak up on him without a clear EM reading, only to be surprised to see a colonist bot – a beastformer if the kibble and face were anything to go by. 

Somewhat admonishing himself, Drift realized he hadn’t been on the alarm for such a field reading and that, more than almost anything else, was probably the reason as to why he had not felt the bot’s approach. 

The red and black beastformer smiled fanged denta at them. “I’m sorry to have eavesdropped, but you mentioned recruitment for that giant ship that just landed today, and I think I know plenty of bots who would be interested.”

Drift frowned at the bot, eyeing her harshly. “I’m afraid we have not worked out the requirements of application for enlistment,” Drift attempted to end the conversation abruptly. 

Something was off, he was _certain_ of it.

“I think you’ll want my friends and I on board, though,” the bot continued, leaning more over the back of her and Drift’s combined bench. “Have either of you heard of Eukaris?”

“No,” the speedsters answered together at once.

“You might be interested in making it your next stop,” she said. “See, there are these ruins there, not far from one of the tribal territories, that are covered in glyphs and statues in honor of the Knights of Cybertron.”

Almost immediately, Drift glared at the beastformer. “One of the _colonies_ has well known artifacts involving the Knights of Cybertron? But how would that lineup with the timing of the Titans leaving–”

“Hold on, Drift, this is fantastic news!” Rodimus said, nearly standing in his seat. “Hi, I’m Rodimus. Co-Captain of the Lost Light, which I’m happy to say has just declared _open application_ for spots on the ship.”

Drift nearly spun around on his bench with the whiplash the excitement pouring from Rodimus gave him. He looked at his friend with wide optics and thought about how he wasn’t sure if the brash declaration was the best course of action, or if it would do any good to point out how this lead was as good of a turbofox-chase as any other side adventure the Lost Light pulled themselves onto. 

But that smile on Rodimus’ face was not his broad, flashy show of a smile. It was the genuine one, and Drift found himself sinking back in his seat to let Rodimus’ instincts play out as usual just for its sake.

Things change, Rodimus had been right about that.

However, some things also stayed the same.

* * *

Walking the halls of the Lost Light had not been quite as tiresome when the giant vessel was actually in motion, when their journey through the far reaches of space was just _that_ – a _journey._

But grounded on Cybertron, having been cleared for leaving the Medbay’s doors for a week, Megatron found the patrol of his ship’s halls a tiring exercise of his patience. 

Ultra Magnus was also far from the most positive of company as well given the sea of datapads that were being thrown their way in the past week. 

“If Rodimus is going to declare _open registration_ without even the least bit of sense to seek considerations from the command of this hardly holding together ship, the least he could do is help in screening through this wasteland of applications with us,” Megatron grouched, trying not to lean to heavily on his favored leg as they stopped for another group of tours. “This is madness. And it’s turning the socializing areas of the ship into scrapheaps.”

“I have doubled the cleaning duty shifts, however, it is progressively difficult to callout defectors from the crew when each time less favorable chores are assigned, crew remove themselves from the manifest and claim departure… only to end up in our application list within the same hour,” Magnus explained with a soured expression, though it _was_ difficult to tell it apart from his usual disapproval. 

Megatron looked through the datapads in his hands swiftly so as to make sure he saw none of the culprits among his own applicants. It was relieving to his mounting irritation to see none. “It is my official recommendation that any such applicants are qualified for automatic dismissal.”

For a moment, Magnus hummed in what sounded like agreement as he scanned through one pad and then looked back to Megatron. “Ordinarily I would agree with you, Captain. However, Rodimus has made it a point to keep those particular applications in his office.”

Putting away the datapads in his subspace, Megatron eyed Magnus carefully. “He has his own pile of applications?”

Magnus nodded sagely. “Believe me, Sir. No one has been more shocked by this development than I.”

“That… Honestly, that doesn’t sound like him at all,” Megatron said bluntly. 

“Even _less_ like him, I’m afraid he’s actually reading my memos and responding to them with commentary,” Magnus explained, a definite frown growing on his face as he looked to his datapad. “Not with anything decisive or useful, mind you. His most in depth correspondence to my suggestion over bridge expansion was to ask if putting in a spacebridge on one of the walls of the bridge would count.”

Megatron crossed his arms. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him that it would depend on the dimensions of the spacebridge’s infrastructure,” Magnus said. “But the point is he’s responding at _all_ which means he’s reading them. I don’t believe he’s read _anything_ I’ve sent him before.”

"Hmm,” Megatron hummed, bringing a hand to his chin. “Ultra Magnus, you are right. I believe there is something wrong with the Co-Captain.” He ignored the amused huff Magnus gave at the designation being used with any sort of sincerity. “Perhaps Ratchet should look over him again.” 

“I believe our medical staff would vocally protest to that given the number of physicals they’re being made to give to the approved applicants,” Ultra Magnus said, turning to the next datapad in his own stack.

Surprised, Megatron looked at Magnus seriously. “You are already giving approvals?”

“Not even the first one,” Magnus said with a dull look.

“Then who…” Megatron stopped himself and buried his face in his hands. “There must be something Rodimus is capable of beyond sending my spark off to an early grave.” 

“He’s become rather proficient in approving applicants without a second opinion,” Magnus offered.

With a low growly, Megatron rubbed tiredly at his optics. It was harder and harder to believe that he requested getting off bedrest _early_ for this aggravation. 

As he got his bearings, however, he couldn’t help but notice the loud and distinctive footsteps from further down the hall. The sort of footsteps that he would recognize in an instant. He dropped his hands back to his sides and stared expectantly. 

“Sir?” Magnus asked curiously.

“Magnus, do we have a list of the already approved applications?” Megatron asked as the familiar form turned the corner and met his optics. 

Magnus, missing the newcomer, looked through his datapads. “I have one currently being updated as we speak.”

“Is there a Prime on it?” Megatron asked thinly as Optimus approached rather haughtily. 

Finally looking to see Optimus’ approach, Magnus straightened up in complete obedience to his former commander. It was the sort of reaction that would have caused Megatron to seethe before but at the moment merely left him in further irritation.

“Sir,” Magnus greeted stiffly.

“Ultra Magnus. I am glad to see your health improved,” Optimus said as he came to a momentary pause just feet from them. His optics were honed in on the Lost Light’s captain, however. “Megatron.”

“Prime,” Megatron greeted in equal measure. 

Magnus’ optics glanced between them, helm slightly tilted. 

“I was hoping to speak with you in private,” Optimus explained, his optics hard and face mask doing little to hide that he was angry. 

“I’m sure it is going to be a pleasant conversation,” Megatron replied lithely. He looked back to Ultra Magnus. “I hope you don’t mind running damage control with my _Co-Captain_ while I handle whatever this is.”

"Of course,” Magnus responded dutifully before watching as Optimus and Megatron took their leave.

Megatron took the lead, walking Optimus toward his office in silence and doing everything in his power to show no signs of stiffness or weakness in his lower extremities. There was no doubt in his processor that either from Ratchet or some other means Optimus had heard everything about the extent of his injuries from the encounter with the DJD, and of their losses like loyal and steadfast Ravage. 

But he didn’t need the Prime to see any evidence of his wounds. 

When they at last reached the office, Megatron waved toward the quarters’ doors and was not the least bit surprised as Optimus went on through. 

“Honestly, I am surprised that you showed the sort of reservation to not make this visit much sooner, Prime,” Megatron said candidly as he shut the door behind him. Prime stood in the middle of the room with his optics still burning into Megatron’s. “From what I have heard, you’ve made quite the show of throwing your weight around over the last several weeks.”

“That is not what this is about, Megatron,” Optimus said in a tone that was very firm and almost warning. “This is about _you.”_

Scoffing, Megatron waved his servo and continued over toward his desk. “Of course it is.”

“Namely, I want you to explain just why you’re prolonging the mission of this ship once again,” Optimus said darkly. “Because _I_ hear things as well.”

Almost curious, Megatron took his seat at his desk before looking at Optimus almost casually. “I must admit I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“All of Cybertron is bustling with news of this ship’s recruitment measures and of its next planned destination – _Eukaris._ A _colony_ far off any of the predestined points of interest for finding the Knights of Cybertron,” Optimus said curtly. “While colonists aren’t involved with the political allegiances _here_ , it hasn’t stopped Decepticons from doing their damnedest to recruit those they can.”

Megatron folded his servos together. “I suppose I’m to believe Autobots are above such a thing as recruiting new members. Even if my ship – _an Autobot ship_ – is recruiting as we speak.”

"This isn’t a game, Megatron,” Optimus snapped. “Decepticons have always had more traction with bots who have beast modes.”

“Is there a point to all of this?” Megatron cut to the chase.

“Are you sabotaging this ship?” Optimus asked seriously. 

For a moment, Megatron considered the accusation before he could no longer contain the laughter built in his vocalizer. His head sunk into his hand and he shook with the ferocity of it. 

“I do not appreciate not being taken seriously, Megatron,” Optimus growled leaning in with his hands on the desk’s edge. “You only have things to _gain_ should this mission be postponed or marked as a failure. Your trial is _dependent_ on this ship’s quest. Your position only levied with the fewer Autobots housed on this vessel and the more mech who find themselves more sensitive to your beliefs.”

“You have accused me of many things over the eons, Prime,” Megatron responded, a hint of darkness on the edge of his smirk. “But the mere idea you’d think I would lack the sense of preservation for my own image, that I would allow my _own ship_ to fail is not one I thought you were dull enough to make.”

Optimus glared evenly. “I _know_ you, Megatron,” he reminded him. “And I know that failure of this mission is an inevitability you have long planned for, whether it was your first, second, or _hundredth_ option.” 

Smirk slipping from his faceplate, Megatron met Optimus’ glare. He supposed that Optimus _did_ know him far better than even his closest of friends. 

“That may be your opinion,” Megatron said. “It may even be a right one. But let me assure you, none of those decisions were even ran _by_ me. They’re owed entirely to my Co-Captain. If anyone is prolonging this mission it is him. Though I doubt, from what infrequent conversations we _have_ had since arriving on Cybertron, his ultimate aim was to prolong anything.”

The Prime didn’t lessen his glare. “Why would _Rodimus_ be making those decisions?”

Megatron tilted his helm. “Isn’t that a question best left to him? Have you spoken to him since our arrival, or has throwing your weight around the capital and Starscream’s little farce of a court been asking a lot of your time?”

“Watch yourself,” Optimus warned. 

“I always do,” Megatron replied tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a starship to run–”

The two bots turned and looked as an alarm for one of the communication channels at Megatron’s desk began lighting up and buzzing him. Megatron looked at it in aggravation and noted that it was from the Medbay. 

He supposed the Lost Light was good at nothing more than its inconvenient timing. 

* * *

With a firm smile on her faceplate, Velocity patted the knee of the mech on her examination table before walking over to the rest of her equipment. “And with that, I’m pretty confident in saying your physical’s over.”

There was a certain pride the still training doctor took in the pleased sigh of the speedster in front of her. Velocity really enjoyed the make of the Velocitronian colonists she had met thus far – they were about the only bots she was in company of where her own kibble didn’t feel audaciously showy.

“Thanks, Doc! Man, I’m just so glad to be joining the adventures on this ship! You guys are _legendary!”_ he said excitedly. 

“Feh,” First Aid vocalized from the station next to them, earning a frown from Velocity. 

“Well, I can say we’ll be happy to have every one of you on our journey with us,” Velocity assured him with a small salute. “Now I’d recommend that you go and find out where your habsuite will be. As large as this ship is, it’s often difficult to make your way around at first. It took me almost two orns to adventure outside of my usual route from the habsuite to this medbay!” 

The smaller model speedster enthusiastically waved back to her before transforming right off the table and taking off, kicking up dust in the medbay and screeching down the hall to elicit protests from the long line of other bots waiting for their mandatory physicals.

Velocity coughed and waved the smoke away from her face. “Well, _that_ was enthusiastic,” she noted.

“Velocity,” First Aid said in a low tone as he nodded the patient on his own table off. 

Sighing, Velocity rubbed at her neck cables. “I know, I know. Not so much chitchat. Have to get through dozens of more physicals,” she said, forcing her next pristine smile as another bot jumped onto the table. “But think of it as practice for my bedside manner! I think I’ve improved it quite a bit while you left me as temporary CMO–”

"You know what would _really_ help us speeding these physicals along?” First Aid interrupted, not even looking back at Velocity. “If _Ratchet_ would help. He said he’s back. He said he’s staying with the ship. But where is he right now? Not here. Probably because I’m here. He stepped down as Chief, he had promised me he was training me for the position since Delphi. But when push comes to shove he can’t process the idea of actually taking orders from another doctor. Let alone _me.”_

Velocity cycled her optics and frowned as she scanned the designation of her new patient and started the physical exam. “He might just be a grouchy old mech, First Aid. It might have nothing to do with you,” she offered. “We worked together well performing triage on the Necrobot planet, but he wasn’t the most accommodating.”

“He’s one of the best doctors to have ever been forged, Velocity,” First Aid admonished. 

Confused, Velocity turned to cock her head at her former teacher. “But I was just… You just–” She let out a long vent and covered her face. “Nevermind. I don’t know why I tried.”

First Aid grouchily continued his work, a few mutterings barely more than static from his vocalizer as he mentioned _Ratchet_ and _Defensor_ more than a few times while outpacing Velocity three patients to one despite her most genuine efforts. 

Growing progressively frustrated, Velocity held a hand to her helm between patients and shook her head. “So much for having a speedy frame,” she huffed at herself.

“I could probably upgrade you to something even speedier if that’s what you need.”

Looking over her shoulder, Velocity watched as Brainstorm walked up to her side of the exam room and promptly took the seat she’d barely just left. Velocity tilted her head and watched as the professed “Mad Scientist” spun around in her chair a few times for good measures. 

"Whatever for?” Velocity laughed before nodding to her current patient and sending them on their way. 

“Complete and utter boredom,” Brainstorm answered with an emphatic waving of his servos. “You would not _believe_ how cooped up it is on this ship when everyone is gone and even _Perceptor_ leaves to catch up with friends. _Perceptor. Friends._ Other than _me!_ Which means I’m not allowed in the laboratory for now. Ridiculous.”

Pausing from calling in the next round of her patients, Velocity looked over Brainstorm seriously. “Why don’t _you_ socialize then?” she asked, fingers tapping on the counter beside her. “You have a plethora of _amica_ to choose from at the moment, after all.”

Brainstorm looked at her dully. “Including you?”

Velocity paused and remembered that it was technically true. “Oh, yes,” she said slowly, gathering the next datapad from her stack. “However, I was thinking more of… Well, ones who _aren’t_ buried to their processors in work right now.”

“They all left the ship to explore and socialize. That sort of junk,” Brainstorm sighed miserably, spinning the chair again. 

“And you can’t follow?” she asked skeptically. 

“What? And risk getting arrested on the spot?” Brainstorm asked critically. “Did you miss the _huge_ prisoner exchange a few weeks back? And that they mandated that pending criminals – including one of our _captains_ – aren’t allowed to step foot on Cybertron without risking arrest or worse? No thanks.”

“But your trial and punishment are an entirely internal matter pertaining to this ship,” Velocity attempted to argue.

“Spoken like a true colonist who doesn’t know the depths of what loopholes Starscream would be willing to pull,” Brainstorm said with a wave of his servo. “Oh what innocence. What confidence in fellow mech. Yeesh. You colonists should’ve fought some wars over the millennia.”

"I’m sure speaking will of a planet’s elected leader while in mixed company will get you far as well,” Velocity mused. “Well, since I’m the one _amica_ around and you’re bored, Brainstorm, are you interested in maybe helping lighten the load of these physicals?” 

Brainstorm threw back in his head in laughter. He paused while Velocity stared at him expectantly and tilted his head curiously. “Oh, wait. Do you mean that seriously?”

She opened her intake to fire back at him when First Aid cleared his vocalizer behind her. He _still_ didn’t manage to look away from his patients and actually look at her in doing so. 

“Velocity, call in your next patient already,” he warned haughtily. 

“Of course, First Aid,” she sighed back, looking to the datapad.

Before Velocity could call out the ext designation on her list, a small frame wobbled forward ahead of the line, earning some disagreeable noises from everyone around. 

“I’m sorry, but you’ll need to wait until I call… your name,” Velocity hesitated as she saw the face of the bot in front of her and immediately recognized him as the zippy Velocitronian speedster she had just sent off. “I’m sorry, you’ve already been cleared. Are you having trouble finding your habsuite?”

Alarmed, Brainstorm rose to his pedes. “Velocity, look at the stuff running from that mech’s eyes.”

Velocity had already noticed it – a maroon, fibrous liquid that didn’t look like coolant so much as it looked like corroded _energon_ somehow. And the fresh, smooth paint of the Velocitronian’s frame was dented and chipping as he stepped forward. 

“D-Doc, you s-said I looked okay b-but I don’t feel so-so okay–” the Velocitronian wheezed through a staticy vocalizer as he reached for her arm and grabbed her by the wrist. 

A tremor went through Velocity from helm to heelstrut and she attempted to pull away from the mech immediately. “I-I assure you, I’ll treat you in just a moment if you’ll just– please let go, I’ll examine you again, there’s no reason to be a-alarmed – _please let go–”_

“I-I feel so bad, I n-never found my hab-habsuite,” the incoherent crackling in his vocalizer continued as his vice grip on Velocity’s wrist grew tighter. “P-p-please!”

Velocity’s processor was a storm of static and it was all she could do to keep from outright panicking when Brainstorm came to her side and pulled the patient’s hand away from her wrist as quickly as he could. 

“Hey, let’s try and respect the doc’s wishes–” Brainstorm started to say just before the hand and arm of the patient separated and a cloud of red dust puffed in the air between them as the off balanced Velocitronian went crashing to the floor.

In harmony, Brainstorm and Velocity screamed at the development.

“What is going on–” First Aid began, moving past the flimsy divider of his and Velocity’s stations only to let out a choked noise when he saw the mech on the floor. “What in the _Pit!?”_

“Believe it or not it wasn’t me! I don’t think,” Brainstorm called out, servos in the air. 

“First Aid! Help, I don’t know what happened! This patient came back and was leaking and asking for help–” Velocity recounted frantically as she dropped to her knees and began to reach for the patient.

“Velocity, _no!”_ First Aid shouted, grabbing her arm and yanking her up harshly.

“I’m sorry! I’ll help him but I don’t know what I missed–” she began, body shaking.

“Velocity, get on the communicator and call Ratchet, call the bridge, _call everyone!”_ First Aid shouted, getting to the floor and grabbing the patient himself. “Quarantine off this side of the ship – no one in or out!”

“But this one was already outside the Medical Wing and in the habsuites according to him,” Brainstorm pointed out.

“Then quarantine the _whole ship!_ The docks! And get a hold of the capital building!” First Aid ordered. “Do you realize what this is?”

“No! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, First Aid!” Velocity cried out, grabbing for the communicator. 

“It’s _Red Rust_ , and everyone in contact with where the infection frequency radius is _already_ infected!” First Aid snapped.


	4. 1.4 Leader of the Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking an extra week on this update, though I fear that’s going to be a little more common for the rest of the story for a while at least. Classes for me start back on Monday and I’m 100% putting school first, of course. So this and my other stories will be a bit on the back burner but not forgotten! Twisted Legacy is in my top priorities for updates after two fics which are very near completion (neither Transformers stories I’m afraid lol) But it’s also exciting because we have, after this, just one more chapter to Part I!!! Then we’ll be a fifth of the way done, so hooray for that much : ) 
> 
> And special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, Isame, and @prettyarbitrary for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

Drift might have been capable of holding Rodimus at bay long enough to talk him out of the admittedly ridiculous notion of kicking down the door to a government council hall while it was in session. He might’ve even come up with a good reason they should keep to themselves and have a private discussion on future plans elsewhere.

Which made it a definite mistake on the badgeless guards at the entrance of the building that they kept him back so as to argue letting him in with his swords. Truly, a laughable offense considering what percentage of Cybertronians after the war had modifications for weapons built right into them.

Even _without_ Drift, Rodimus might have been capable of reconsidering the idea of kicking a door in when he was already on such thin ice. But he was somewhat pissed, thus the door got kicked in. 

“Why is my ship _still_ quarantined!?” Rodimus demanded angrily of the Council as he stood before them. He didn’t even flinch as the outside guards finally got around to their job and surrounded him from behind. “You _know_ that the outbreak didn’t start with my crew, Starscream! This is _pettiness,_ pure and simple.”

His temper was still running hot, his spark pulsing and his fuel tank ready at a moment’s notice to flare up with flames, but he had at least enough sense to take in the surroundings of the room after his outburst.

Starscream was, as expected, seated on the far end on a _throne_ of all things – as if Rodimus needed more irritation to spur a flame on – but around him were faces that were unusual in size and make. A few he could recognize for better or worse – better for the Camiens he vaguely recalled meeting him at the shipyard, worse for traitorous, in Rodimus’ optics, mechs like Rattrap – but for the most part the Council seemed constructed of the strange and unusual.

Closest to Rodimus and the entrance, though, was Ratchet. The medic stared at him with a gaze of both anger and complete expectation like only Ratchet was capable of giving simultaneously.

“For frag’s sake, Rodimus,” Ratchet snapped. 

A large, intimidating mech with a black paint job clutched the edges of the long table. “The disorder of these meetings has reached truly outrageous levels! On Carcer, such speaking out of term would be dealt with deftly.”

“Fantastic suggestion, Delegate Obsidian,” Starscream said smoothly rising in his own chair. “Guards, if you could escort our Lost Light Captain here to a holding cell, perhaps near some of his former crewmates who would be _dying_ to see him–”

Rodimus gave a warning glare to the guards that neared him. “Don’t even _think_ about it, you–”

“You’ve made your point, Starscream,” Ratchet declared, getting to his own pedes and taking a step back toward Rodimus as if to further block the speedster from Starscream’s dubious guards. “And Rodimus _is_ a captain of the ship.”

“I’m confused,” another delegate said, turning toward Starscream. “I thought we were speaking to the captain of the Lost Light through communications.”

Surprised, Rodimus took notice of the holoavatar closer to the center of the table and recognized the outline immediately as his Co-Captain. 

“Megs?” Rodimus asked skeptically. “What the hell – someone _else_ on my crew you’re inviting to this meeting beside me, Starscream?” He felt Ratchet grab his wrist and wring it tightly. “Hey!”

“Would you stuff your intake for five minutes?” Ratchet hissed at him. 

“I won’t have them making decisions about _my_ ship and _my_ crew without me, Ratchet,” Rodimus snapped back in as hushed of tones as he could force. “The last time I did that it was listening to–”

“Rodimus.”

For a moment, Rodimus had the instinctive reaction of allowing his spark to feel like it was dropping to his fuel tank. he looked with wide optics back to where the projected holoavatar of Megatron had been only to see instead the familiar visage of his mentor instead. 

Optimus Prime’s projection stood tall with crossed arms and a distant look toward Rodimus. 

“We are attempting to make the same points about the need for free travel from the ship,” Optimus explained simply. “Especially since there have already been reports from Cybertronians and colonists within the city experiencing symptoms of the disease without having association or contact to the Lost Light itself.”

“Considering the only parties knowledgeable about the disease were those _from_ the ship to begin with, and considering the first reported cases were _on_ the ship,” Starscream continued, “I stand by my decision to maintain quarantine status. No one on or off that ship for any reasons.”

“Okay, what the scrap do you have against my ship, Starscream?” Rodimus growled, only to receive a light shove to his chest from Ratchet. 

“That isn’t how disease control _works,_ Starscream,” Ratchet snapped. “Especially when, as I explained to you before, our medical staff’s experience with the Red Rust has showed us that it’s an artificial virus that is started off by a soundbomb being detonated. Cross contamination after that is contact with coolants, dispersants, and anti-rusting agents that have been corroded from infected patients – but that _initial_ activation of the virus is intentional from what we know.”

“Really,” a red speedster among the delegates spoke up, “it’s a small miracle that we haven’t had a case of contamination and disease before now. Given the difference in exposures and immunological variance between the various colonies and how there has been free travel among us all.” He paused and glanced toward Ratchet with his red optics. “I apologize for speaking over you. The name is Knock Out, I’m from Velocitron. I’m also a doctor when I’m not playing delegate, you see.”

“Then you understand how it’s of no use to this Council or to Cybertron as a whole to continue with this minimalist effort at quarantine,” Ratchet said, keeping his optics locked on the delegate. 

“Health wise,” Rodimus huffed, crossing his arms. “ _Politically_ …” He kept his vocalizer mute when Ratchet visibly sighed at his addition.

Even from his distance, Rodimus could see Starscream’s claws digging into the table before him. And as much as the captain knew the reaction wouldn’t spell well for him in the long run, it was still _very_ satisfying on a very immature level for him. 

“No reason for your ship’s quarantine, Rodimus?” Starscream snapped. “Despite the fact the _only_ known survivors of the disease are among your crew? Despite the fact that the _only_ mech in the universe who would have known anything about the disease that seems to have its use as a _terrorist attack_ on my people are in your medical staff?” He leaned back in his throne. “I would beg to differ.”

The insinuation was so ridiculous that, for a moment, Rodimus wasn’t even sure if it was truly what Starscream was getting at. He cycled his optics and looked incredulously at the leader.

Unfortunately, Ratchet stepped up immediately with the exact reaction Rodimus had been thinking of. Only his faceplate was already visibly heating up.

“Are you _accusing_ me or my student– _former_ student – of something so unthinkable? So against every code and belief a doctor would hold dear?” Ratchet sputtered in disbelief.

“By your own testimony, wasn’t an _Autobot_   _doctor_ the very source of the initial virus?” Starscream asked wryly.

“Why you–” Ratchet gritted out.

“Uh, Ratchet,” Rodimus muttered, grabbing the doctor’s shoulder only to have it jerked away immediately. Rodimus raised his hands in the air innocently and grinned at Starscream deciding this was actually a fight he wouldn’t have minded seeing. 

Or selling tickets to if he had had access to Swerve’s bar. 

“No one should be accusing anyone at this meeting of _anything_ other than attempting to find a solution to the situation at hand,” Optimus said over the speaker. 

“Yes,” Megatron agreed. “A leader of any caliber would be able to put that thought to fruition, of course.”

Rodimus joined most of the Council in looking to Starscream after that jab. Though he imagined he was the only one who was craving the Oil House’s energon chips to eat while watching it all unfold.

“With _Rodimus_ here as a representative captain for the ship, what additional commentary can you provide, Megatron!?” Starscream snapped. “Because if there is nothing then I want you off this conference call effective _immediately.”_

“What I can provide that my Co-Captain cannot is an on-ship perspective,” Megatron snapped back at Starscream. “Because of the limitations _you’ve_ imposed on us.”

“Yeah,” Rodimus added unhelpfully. He then glanced toward the projections. “Right… What exactly was that perspective again?”

“That there are more than a few curious similarities in some of the newly recruited crewmembers of the Lost Light, a suspicious commonality that even Prime here can agree is questionable,” Megs responded. 

“There is a large group of individuals who claim identical histories, copied and pasted it would seem,” Optimus continued. “They do not match altmode and in appearance alone you could see how their origins do not match their make. Not to mention, they all have identical paint jobs to their exteriors.” 

“And none of them have been found since the outbreak began,” Megatron explained. “I have held several meetings calling for all crew currently under quarantine on the ship. They are logged as having entered the ship, but not leaving it.”

Rodimus looked to the Council. “That’s right. _Mighty_ suspicious.”

“And how did this copy-paste approach to their histories make it past your review process?” one of the council members demanded.

“Oh, I can answer that,” Rodimus said mostly to himself before stepping forward. “See, there’s multiple mech in the Command infrastructure for our ship. We split the duties. It would have been difficult for all three of us to realize that any of the applications were repeating if we didn’t see all of them ourselves.”

“I am afraid they are all actually approved by _you,_ Rodimus,” Optimus informed him with a certain dark tone to his voice.

For a moment, Rodimus stared back at his mentor before allowing the words to fully sink in. He then shifted his weight on his pedes. “Ah,” he said instead. 

“The commonality between all of the suspicious mechs is the paint job and their lack of attendance,” Megatron changed subjects, something that easily would have earned Rodimus’ eternal gratitude if he wasn’t so busy feeling like his spark had sunk through the floor. “We are looking for mechs with basic red paint with all of their personal affects painted black. And it seems like a common addition is to have a red mark over their faceplates. The right optic and cheek.”

Rodimus still felt like his vocalizer was ready to crack, but he ignored it to step forward all the same. He looked to the Council seriously. “Look, there was an oversight here on a lot of bots’ parts. But we have a direction to start looking for the real answers here. And keeping my ship and crew from entering or leaving their home isn’t going to solve anything here. Especially when we’ve got Ratchet at the rest of the medical staff separated during precious time where they could be engineering a cure for this damn thing. So how about we drop the quarantine, you guys double the awareness of the city about the danger of changing altmodes, and keep an eye out for these suspicious characters _who are obviously not on my ship?”_

The Council glanced toward each other, a low muttering between the various delegates. 

Throughout it, Rodimus kept his attention on Starscream, his optics narrowing on the Cybertronian ruler as he sat back in his chair with a strangely reserved look to his face – distracted as if something said had haunted him. Though, for the spark of him, Rodimus couldn’t imagine what it was.

“The Lost Light is no longer exclusively quarantined, but we cannot have this virus spreading further between worlds,” the Camien Rodimus remembered as Windblade said as she stood up. “Therefore the ship will be open, but grounded like the rest of the ships and the spacebridges until this disease is under control and the responsible parties discovered.”

There was a murmur of agreement and Starscream rose to his pedes. “Yes, yes, sounds fine – Rattrap, work out the details,” he said without a fight before heading out of the hall.

“What the pit,” Rodimus said, watching Starscream in disappointment at the lack of explosion. 

“There’s more to this than he’s showing,” Ratchet huffed. “But what else is new?”

While he agreed completely, Rodimus was too distracted to give it full heed. Instead, he moved toward the projections of his Co-Captain and the Prime. He gritted his denta some and looked toward Optimus in particular. 

“Optimus, about all this…” he began, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We will discuss this later,” Optimus responded before turning off the projections from their end.

Rodimus stared at the space Optimus had previously occupied and took a deep vent as the Council went on about their business around them. 

“Damn it,” Rodimus hissed to himself.

* * *

Starscream had had his suspicions beforehand. He had known that there were problems with every deal. And _no one_ was more prepared for double dealing than he was. 

But getting his confirmation from the _Prime_ of all mechs was enough to grind Starscream’s gears to a halt. 

“Out of my way!” he snapped at the guards and capital employees as he pressed forward to his secluded quarters and headed immediately for the balcony. He hadn’t the patience or the time for dealing with formalities and politeness. 

With all the doors locked behind him, Starscream grabbed at his helm and snarled. 

“Error,” he hissed. “I knew it was going to come back to haunt me.”

 _And here I thought that was just my job,_ the familiar, lofty voice of his most consistent tormentor sang toward him. 

With a glare from the corner of his optics, Starscream saw enough of Bumblebee’s haunted presence to confirm that the annoyance of an Autobot was there again to play the part of a conscience that had _long_ since been trained out of him. 

“It seems someone else has stepped forward to make up for your continuous slacking,” Starscream replied snidely. “Something that would have been a benefit to your short rule of Cybertron overall.”

Bumblebee leaned heavily on his cane. _Hey, no need to be rude. Besides, say what you will about me, I surrounded myself with bots whose opinions I at least_ thought _I could openly trust. Not some heavy wheeler who mysteriously beckoned me off the street. I mean, his name was_ Error, _Starscream. Fake name or not,_ who _trusts a guy named that?_

Narrowing his optics, Starscream glared out into his city. “You and I are constructed differently, Bumblebee. Let me _assure_ you, I do not surround myself with those I trust because the only mech one can trust is themselves.” He deepened his scowl. “Believe me, this _Error_ never had my trust.”

From his spot at the balcony entrance, Starscream opened his private channel. 

While the encounter with Error had been brief, Starscream had learned enough about his arguable associate. The brilliant red and black display, the bizarre markings on his faceplate which had signified to the ruler of Cybertron that he was likely dealing with a colonist – the all consuming determination in his optics that Starscream knew to fear more than anything else.

 _You didn’t trust him? That didn’t seem to be the case on that roof awhile ago,_ Bumblebee pointed out almost smugly. 

“I merely saw that the proposition seemed to bode well in my favor,” Starscream answered haughtily. “Just as I knew just by looking at Error that he had plans far beyond anything he would willingly share. Or that I would want to be connected with.” Starscream waited for the private channel’s frequency to be picked up. “Which is why I knew he would be able to contact me the moment he had anything _relevant_ to my interests. You see, I can spot desperate intelligence. If and when he was going to need to get in contact with me, he already had the information on how to do so.”

For a moment, Starscream waited expectantly on the channel. He ignored the ghostly gaze of the dead Autobot entirely.

But he could not ignore the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Your faith in my abilities are well deserved, _Lord_ Starscream.”

Optics wide, the Seeker spun around immediately and faced the bulky mass of the mech he had seen on the rooftops of Metroplex. Starscream could practically _feel_ the tables turning on him.

“Error,” Starscream squeaked out at first before coughing into his fist and forcing himself to stand at a more dignified position. “Your appearance is striking and _uncouth._ I cannot say I approve of you finding a way to break into my quarters.”

“But you were wishing to speak with me,” Error said flatly. 

“I wanted to see for myself whether or not our… _previous discussions_ had truly had any merit,” Starscream said carefully, backing away slightly from the mech and being certain of his nearest escape route’s validity. “Especially considering their timing.”

The daunting mech made no movements nor did  his face show any signs of surprise. “You mean the discovery of the disease. That which culls the herds, which promises to eradicate the _errors_ of Cybertronians past.”

Starscream’s optics narrowed as he looked at the mech. “ _Culling herds?_ What this disease has done has caused panic and inconvenience on a massive scale! Do you know how many bots there are currently in _my_ city who are terrified to transform out of their altmode since the epidemic? You would be surprised how many tasks necessary to the running of Metroplex require my citizens to be able to freely activate their t-cogs!” He snarled, stepping forward. “I will give you a preview: _it’s all of them!”_

A smile curled itself on Error’s face. “You are displeased with the state of Cybertron.”

Throwing his arms to the air, Starscream let out a frustrated crackle from his vocalizer. “Of _course_ I am, you can of bolts!”

“I, too, have been displeased with Cybertron,” Error claimed, stepping closer. “You see, there has been a _history of errors_ which have doomed this planet and its lifeforms. Errors which have led to a deeply flawed future, to a future where its citizenry are not allowed to rule by designed right. One where choice has dulled the senses into a new conformity. Where elitism is disguised in a new divinity. Where the _weak_ are allowed to prosper beyond their means.”

For a moment Starscream merely tilted his helm as the rant proceeded, then he glanced toward the skyline and back to Error. “I don’t believe you and I are discussing the same Cybertron.”

“No,” Error agreed. “Not yet. Not _ever._ Now that I have provided the means through which Cybertronians past will already have been strengthened by removal of the weak and susceptible.”

Confused and unnerved, Starscream stepped back onto his balcony more properly, preparing to transform and make his planned escape when he heard a vocalizer clearing static beside him. He glanced toward the noise and saw for himself Bumblebee’s haunting presence shaking his head.

 _Hate to remind you of this, but using your t-cog gives a certain high percentage of dying right now,_ the Autobot’s ghost reminded him.

“You warn me about this _now!?”_ Starscream screeched. “Just who do you think you are?”

“I am the one clearing Errors on the path of our god,” Error answered, drawing Starscream’s attention fully to him again. It was only then that Starscream realized that a fire was igniting in the palms of his hands, torching the chamber room around him. “I am Primus’ guiding hand. And I am here to remove the marks of imperfection. To save Cybertron’s future.”

Optics wide, Starscream readily flinched back from an oncoming attack when the overwhelming sound of engines roaring behind him on the balcony came to his attention. 

Both he and Error looked just as the jet altmode Starscream had come to recognize from anywhere came crashing through, transforming into Windblade’s altmode as she struck at Error with her sword. 

The larger bot blocked with his forearm, barely flinching as Windblade’s sword dug into armor plating. But the movement sent the flames his hands were producing flaring all over the room and barely giving Starscream time to duck beneath them. 

“Have you lost your processor!?” Starscream screeched as his would-be savior.

“Transforming’s dangerous if you’re _infected_ but I’ve not had any contact with a known infected mech yet,” Windblade replied before kicking off Error and landing near Starscream. “So it seemed like a risk worth taking. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“I mean how you’re assisting this _assassin_ in vandalizing my quarters!” he snapped, waving to the flames overtaking the room. 

Windblade took the time to give Starscream an exasperated look just before the opposite doors to the chamber burst open with the force of the badgeless guards. Late and useless as usual. 

“Where have you _been_ all this time!?” Starscream demanded of them.

Error looked toward the guard then to Starscream and Windblade. There was a cruel collectiveness to his smile, something that seemed to unnerve the Camien delegate but only strengthen Starscream’s resolve to have a stare down with the enemy. 

“Know this,” he called in his low, booming tone. “I _will_ be inflicting the will of Primus, and removing those who defile his legacy, past and future. That in showing me the weakness of your resolve today, _Lord Starscream,_ you have proven to not be guided by his hand. _This_ will be a grave day to be rued by you soon enough.”

With utter distaste finding its way to his intake, Starscream scoffed and threw back his head. “ _Another_ thing to do with _Primes._ I should have assumed.”

As the guards braved the flames to rush in toward them, Error’s fists closed and the flames stopped erupting from them, but a purple plume covered him in an instant, causing the entire mech to disappear before their eyes. 

Once the guards were at Error’s position, the smoke dissipated and the mech was nowhere to be found. 

The confusion erupted among the guards as they searched the room, only being knocked off course as Windblade’s constant bodyguard broke through the ranks to get to them. Chromia angrily looked at Windblade but offered no verbal recourse in Starscream’s presence, as per their usual arrangement. 

 _You’re lucky Windblade loves getting in your business,_ Bumblebee mused. 

Not giving Chromia much mind, Windblade stared at Starscream intently, optics glaring. “What _was_ that?” she demanded. “What just happened? _Who_ was that? And what does he have to do with Optimus Prime?”

Starscream growled and put his hands to his helm. “The pitches your voice reaches are _most_ grating,” he informed her.

“Heh, from Star _scream,”_ Chomia muttered under a vent, though the leader was quick to overhear it. 

 _She’s right, though,_ Bumblebee warned. _This is going to be a growing problem and you know the most about this guy of anyone in the city right now. If he’s after the Primacy, after the_ Matrix _even, then those who have bore it before are at risk –_

“We can only _hope_ that this madmech is after Matrix bearers and that two thorns in my side are either taken out by Error or Error’s taken out by them,” Starscream scoffed before crossing his arms. “Though knowing Prime and Rodimus, we’re looking at the _latter_ scenario.”

Bumblebee’s head tilted in irritation. 

“What are you talking about, Starscream?” Windblade asked, optics wide and questioning. “Matrix bearers? This Error is after Optimus Prime? And… you think Rodimus? The _Lost Light_ captain? But _why?”_

Starscream looked at her aghast, realizing that yet again a partial conversation with Bumblebee was going to kick him in the aft. And that there were not many ways to spin the comments in his favor. Instead, he growled and looked to his guards putting out what remained of the flames as they checked over his chamber. 

“It sounds to _me_ as if your answers lie with your precious Prime, Windblade,” Starscream informed her as he pressed through the disaster. “I would thank you for your appearance at _just_ the right moment if I both knew it wasn’t enough for you to repay your debt to _me_ , and also that it was only possible if you had been eavesdropping in the first place.”

“You know something,” she said, trying to keep up behind him. “And I can almost guarantee it’s something of _valuable_ importance to putting an end to all of this.”

“The only thing I know is what _started_ this nonsense,” Starscream hissed. “You need the others to figure out a way to _end_ it.”

* * *

Ratchet knew deep down to his circuits that he was simply getting too old for politics. 

Even when he was young and at the top of his game, when the greatest threat he faced was the corruption and bureaucracy of the old senate, Ratchet hadn’t had the patience or time to dedicate to the political mind games.

Which made it somewhat astounding that even _he_ knew Rodimus was doing his future no good. 

“Would you stop _dragging_ me already?” Rodimus snapped, wrenching his wrist from Ratchet once they out of the capital building and met with one annoyed looking Drift. “I’m not a sparkling.”

“Could’ve fooled _me_  and anybot in that room,” Ratchet grouched back, giving a nod to Drift as the swordsmech approached. “I thought you were keeping him in line.”

“He hasn’t needed that much guidance lately,” Drift explained with a wave of his servos. “I’m probably rusty.”

“You guys are hilarious,” Rodimus said bitingly. “Who writes your material? The Decepticon headlining jokes at Maccadam’s or the Cybertronians running the government around here.”

Ratchet got in the speedster’s face and hissed out, “Would you _watch it_ already? Do you have any idea how dangerous this situation is right now? They have every right to throw us in a cell and throw away the key right now.”

“No, they _don’t!_ That’s not _freedom!”_ Rodimus snarled back.

“This isn’t _freedom,_ kid! This is a Cybertron run by a backstabber and elected by backstabbers. For fragsake have you forgotten what happened to Bumblebee here?” Ratchet asked, exhausted by the mere mention of it. “How many Autobots have _died_ here since we _won?_ It’s a Cybertron that it was _before_ the war. You were barely more than a spark before things were breaking out, you can’t know how _dangerously familiar_ it all is.”

For a moment, Ratchet could see a flicker of something deeply troubled and haunted cross Rodimus’ face just before it hardened and his optics narrowed.

“No one has to remind me of what it was like before the war, Ratchet. I _never_ forget Nyon,” Rodimus snapped angrily. 

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chestplate and began to think of something to snidely reply with when there was a faint, staticky clearing of a vocalizer near them. 

All three Lost Lighters turned to face the interrupting voice and saw for themselves that it was the red speedster delegate who had introduced himself during the Council meeting. _Knock Out,_ the doctor delegate from Velocitron who had said he was read up on Ratchet’s work. Though the old medic was far from sure whether or not that was a good thing. 

“My my, what a long and intricate history this planet has. Just when I think I have my servo on understanding it, a new word comes up on the archival records,” the delegate said in a smarmy voice that immediately caused Ratchet to grow flustered at his attitude. “Can’t say I’ve heard anyone tell me what a _Nyon_ is yet.”

Beside Ratchet, Rodimus bristled at the mention of his home city, but before he could work his pede into his intake, Ratchet stepped up once more. 

“Delegate Knock Out, wasn’t it?” Ratchet asked, already knowing. “We are on our way back to our ship now that the quarantine is lifted – and before Starscream can reconsider the decision. However if you would like to discuss medical procedures from the wartime later, I’ll have Velocity speak to you.”

Drift tilted his helm and looked incredulously at Ratchet. “Velocity didn’t work during the war. She only barely started working as a doctor now.”

“Which means she’s just read through all the books,” Ratchet snapped. “I’m not wasting _my_ time talking through them. It’d take hours.”

“Perhaps I’ll look into speaking with this _Velocity_ later,” Knock Out said, his tone still not promising. “We can discuss other medical knowledge on our way to your ship.”

Putting his servos on his hips, Rodimus glared. “Say _what_ now?”

“Why’re you interested in coming onto the Lost Light?” Ratchet asked more diplomatically. “Even if we’re all right and the outbreak didn’t start on the ship, it’s still a fact that the majority of committed patients are onboard. That seems to be a large risk for someone who realizes just how contagious the disease is.”

Rodimus snapped. “Hey! _And_ you’re red! We’re looking for bots with red paint jobs who are acting suspicious. This is _pretty damn suspicious,_ don’t you think, Doc?”

“Oh, please, we saw footage of the paint jobs in question. I would never go for patterns so droll,” Knock Out sneered. “And as for my concerns about contamination, they’re not nearly as strong as my concerns about not being able to transform. Speed is _everything_ to a Velocitron and thanks to this planet and its festering disease, I’m severely limited in that area. I’d like to help speed along the process of producing this cure you mentioned in your briefing, Ratchet. Speeding things along is what a Velocitron does.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics at the doctor and brought a hand to his chin. There was something more to his motivations he wasn’t explaining to them, and even Drift seemed to think the same given the way the swordsmech postured himself after Knock Out’s explanation. 

“ _De_ briefing,” Rodimus said, cutting through Ratchet’s thoughts.

Knock Out cycled his optics. “Excuse me?”

“Debriefing is _after_ the events,” Rodimus explained. “Ratchet _debriefed_ your council or whatever. If you’re getting anywhere near the Lost Light you need to get the terms right or our chuckleheads are going to take a lot of delight in correcting your grammar.”

“No one takes _delight_ in it, Rodimus. I’m pretty sure it’s just Magnus,” Drift offered. “And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t delight in it as much as he takes delight in organizing the stock room.”

“Nah, the briefing-debriefing correction was someone else,” Rodimus waved his servo before pausing. “Or was it? Scrap. Too many bots correct me, I can’t keep them straight.”

Ratchet was used to the type of banter going on between the two of his crewmates – if he hadn’t been by that point, surviving the Lost Light would have been a certain impossibility – but as he looked to Knock Out he could see the other doctor very much _wasn’t._

Knock Out eyed both of the other speedsters before impatiently tapping his pede on the ground. “As fascinating as this discussion _isn’t_ , I’m going to have to ask for the good doctor to accompany me to the ship immediately.”

“We’ll _all_ come,” Ratchet grouched, moving Rodimus and Drift along. “But you’ll have to give me a more convincing reason to let you get in the way of mine and First Aid’s work once we get to the medbay. After all, the both of us have successfully treated the Red Rust before. I don’t believe for an astrosecond that a highrolling bot like yourself is only interested in my expertise.”

“Far from it,” Knock Out said snidely, though he did seem pleased to be finally moving forward with them. “After all, _you_ haven’t cured the Red Rust before, an antidote was in the servos of your former colleague you pawned it from. You said so yourself in your _de_ briefing. Considering that this viral outbreak has affected such a large population with such diverse cybionic evolutions, I would believe it has mutated and changed from the simplified version you have combatted in the past. Which is why, despite your immune system having received antidote once before, I haven’t seen you readily transform in all of this time.” 

Surprised at the power of deductions the other physician had, Ratchet eyed him carefully only to find a glint in Knock Out’s optics. 

“Unless, of course, I’m misstepping,” Knock Out continued slyly.

“You are,” Rodimus said haughtily before arching back to give Ratchet a questioning look. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Not entirely,” Ratchet admitted reluctantly. “But I need to be able to get on the Lost Light. I wasn’t there when the quarantine was initiated because I needed to perform a procedure in another facility with more privacy. And with the quarantine initiated and me outside of it, I couldn’t work with the samples we have in the lab.” He turned more toward Knock Out, optics leering accusingly at the mech. “But that doesn’t answer what it is _you_ want from me if you know all this. Or why you would have helped us win our argument with the Council if you knew the Red Rust was in a more dangerous and evolved form to what I had encountered previously.”

Rodimus visibly pouted some. “Probably due to all the _suspicious behavior_ ,” he muttered just loud enough to make himself heard. 

While Drift was not nearly as overt, the swordsmech had not taken his hands from the hilts of his swords since they begun walking. He was staring very intently at the Velocitronian. 

“As I said, I’m here to speed up the process of finding a cure for this new iteration of the Red Rust before it spreads further. Obviously it will require my superior skills to do so since your staff has yet to accomplish anything,” Knock Out continued haughtily. “And also because using yourself as a test subject will be counter intuitive if you’re also the physician.”

Ratchet let out a gruff laugh at that. “You think I’m going to be experimenting on myself?”

“I know you will be,” Knock Out said. “It’s logical – you already are immunologically prepped, you have already been exposed, and your records show a history of such behavior when it comes to direly needed medical advancements.”

The pointed accusations made Ratchet vent, but he didn’t otherwise respond. They were all notably true – he’d resigned to using his own body as the first host and test for a new antidote the moment he realized what he was looking at. And the tools he needed to do so, and Pharma’s research he had stowed away, were still on the Lost Light. 

“Ratchet, you _can’t_ be thinking of doing that,” Drift said, hastening his step to come up beside the doctors. “Use me instead. You saved me from the Red Rust before. I have complete faith that I’ll be fine in your care again.”

“For the love of– this isn’t the time for testing your religious merits,” Ratchet snapped.

“For me it always is time,” Drift argued, a certain smile as he did so. “Though, for the record, I spoke of my faith in your abilities, my friend.”

“Sounds excellent, the more medical professionals alive to continue the testing the better,” Knock Out mused. “Though I hate to see a finely built streamline like yourself go to rust, so to speak.”

"No one is rusting on my watch!” Ratchet snapped. He then looked meaningfully to Drift. “You don’t have to volunteer. But considering how advanced your last case was, your immune system could be very helpful. I don’t think it’d take more than an afternoon to learn what we need if I’ve got multiple hands helping.”

“Consider it done,” Drift assured him. 

“Then let’s pick of the pace, shall we?” Knock Out asked testily. “The less time I have to spend _walking_ without an altmode of use the better.”

Ratchet scowled at the doctor. He was still certain there was something _more_ to all of this for the doctor, though he couldn’t place what.

“Are you seriously doing this?” Rodimus asked Drift.

“Yes,” Drift said. “Don’t think you can do without me for an afternoon?” he then asked in a more jovial tone.

“It might be difficult,” Rodimus answered with a bizarre seriousness. He then crossed his arms. “I’ll just spend the afternoon locked up somewhere with Ultra Magnus.”

“Willingly? Maybe _you_ have the Red Rust,” Ratchet huffed. “Doesn’t sound like you much at all.” 

“I’m going to go through our ship roster and manifest with him,” Rodimus continued. “I scrapped the whole recruitment process somehow. If anyone can tell me _how,_ it’s going to be our formerly appointed officer of the Tyrest Accord.”

Giving Rodimus another look over, Ratchet shook his head. “Right. Like I said, doesn’t sound like you.”

Drift frowned slightly in disapproval of Ratchet and hung back slightly to stick closer to Rodimus for the remainder of their walk. Which was fine with Ratchet since he needed some semblance of privacy with his fellow physician either way. 

With intent optics on Knock Out, Ratchet closed some of the space between them. 

“You’re onto something with those variations in physiology that might be an issue when it comes to treatment,” Ratchet said lowly. “Velocity’s a Camien so she could probably spot differences there, but it’d be good to have eyes of a medical professional trained in another physiology, too.”

“All the more reason for my influence to be felt,” Knock Out said flippantly. 

Ratchet scowled and pointed to the _X_ marking the back of Knock Out’s servo. “Especially if you’ve already got a Velocitronian patient in mind, Doc. Planning on being a lab tester yourself.”

Knock Out’s red optics narrowed slightly and his gaze slid from Ratchet to the servo in question. “I see your planet still teaches the mark as well.” He looked toward the shipyard as they closed in on the Lost Light. “Yes. I have been exposed and am close to a breakthrough on the cure for Velocitronian physiology. But my patient is _personal_ , and I refuse to force him to wait a moment longer than he has to. Even if his patience is _boundless_ compared to my own.”

Satisfied with having his answer, Ratchet nodded and waved for Drift and Rodimus to catch up. “Then let’s finish that cure. And stop this city’s panic while we’re at it.”


	5. 1.5 Running on Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this was a bit of a wait, and I appreciate all of you guys being so patient with me, but the wait wasn’t for nothing. It’s… Well it’s quite a chunk of a chapter and the wrap up of Part I!!! That almost makes me want to celebrate in and of itself! 
> 
> And special thanks to @bluesrat, and Isame for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part I: Mask of the Red Death  
Chapter 1.5: Running On Rust**

Circuit and Longtooth were running a news story across all of Metroplex that was equal parts uplifting with the assumed possibility of a cure given the lifting of several restrictions including that of the Lost Light, and completely scathing toward the administration and Council. The whiplash of it all might’ve been at least _interesting_ to Windblade if she didn’t have greater concerns to attend to. 

“Windblade! Why are we heading this way?” Chromia called from below, running as fast as she could on pede. “We should have waited and told our side of the story to Ironhide and his agents. Made sure that Starscream’s mechs didn’t change the scene before it could be investigated. You _know_ there’s more to this than Starscream is letting on!”

From her flight path above, Windblade merely glanced at Chromia before continuing forward. “You heard what Starscream said yourself! There’s a chance that the Prime _and_ other Matrix bearers are in danger from this attacker. We _must_ inform Optimus Prime.”

“And we can’t trust anyone else to do this themselves _because…?”_ Chromia attempted to reason, having to leap over a gathered crowd looking at the viewscreens up above running the news. “And _another_ thing, Windblade, what exactly are we supposed to do with the information that there’s more than one Prime? Because _I_ think we should head back to Caminus and seek advice. More than one Prime…”

“No one said definitively that there is more than one Prime,” Windblade corrected her bodyguard. “Starscream said that this mysterious attacker – this party responsible for the plague – was interested in the Matrix. And that Optimus Prime  _and_ Rodimus had something to do with all this.” She felt a flicker of determination in her spark once more. “Then that we’d need to ask the Prime for why.”

“Well at least your true intentions are laid out,” Chromia replied dryly. 

For a moment, Windblade didn’t look to her friend. She didn’t have much else to say toward the scathing remark’s intent. She knew that playing in the political arena, having the ongoing strategy war between herself and Starscream, had made her play things closer to her spark than her bodyguard was used to. But it wasn’t the time nor the place to have the argument. 

And there was a part of Windblade still miffed at the mere fact that she had to spell out for her friend what exactly had been wrong with her actions in the first place. 

Instead Windblade concentrated on how Chromia impressively crossed yet another hurdle in her path. “Why haven’t you transformed?”

“Because, Cityspeaker, no one is as impressively self-assured in the face of a t-cog plague as you,” Chromia grunted in return. “I prefer my vital fluids _not_ leaking onto Metroplex. Thank you.”

Windblade’s processor skipped a touch on the comment. She found herself considering the statement quite a bit. But before she could have truly questioned it overtly, she saw _precisely_ who she needed to see crossing the distance.

“Optimus!” she called out, speeding up and tilting up the nose of her altmode before transforming midair for a landing. 

The Prime had been crossing the street and ignoring the impressive gathering that were all whispering around him after his departure from the divisive Lost Light. He stopped short, optics wide as Windblade landed in front of him. 

“You are transforming, Windblade? In public?” he asked, tone surprisingly condemning for so few words spoken. “Do you believe that is wise?” 

“It was the quickest way to reach you after the Lost Light cut communications with the Council meeting,” Windblade defended firmly. “Not to mention I just transformed during a rescue on Cybertron’s Chosen One, so I’m reaffirmed that the infection, whatever its root cause may end up being, has not affected me.”

Chromia reached her side, vents running as she stood in attention beside Windblade. There was a sly glance Windblade’ way before she reasserted her optics on Optimus. 

“Not everyone shares Windblade’s overconfidence in the difference of colonist anatomies,” Chromia said flatly.

“Nor should they,” Optimus said firmly, optics intently set on Windblade. “Having been on the Lost Light and having spoken with First Aid and the medical staff during the crisis, I can attest to the vulnerability of colonists as much as any other mech. Perhaps no known Camiens have been affected as of yet, but among those documented are nearly every other colony from Velocitronian to Eukarian.”

“I will take precaution for myself when needed, our Prime,” Windblade attempted to dissuade the chastising. She had a much more pressing matter to discuss, after all. 

Not easily moved, Optimus crossed his arms over his broad chest and continued his disapproving glare. “Then perhaps at the very least I can inspire you to think less in self preservation and more in a show of _discretion,”_ he continued. With a gesture of his head, Optimus directed both Camiens’ attention to the gathered crowds looking toward them. “We are far from declaring this crisis over and the mixed messages of these news reports, the lack of direct communication from the elected leader, and now a well known delegate openly using her t-cog in public may inspire a confidence from the people in the danger being over. A confidence that is _not_ yet deserved. Even with our best medical minds now able to work together aboard the ship that has been acting as the initial point of contamination.”

Chromia glanced toward Windblade but said nothing either in defense or continued condemnation of the Cityspeaker.

Withdrawing slightly, Windblade could feel the wings and spoilers at her back slightly dip with her shoulders. “I… understand your criticism of my recklessness,” she finally conceded. “I will place more thought into my actions.”

“I am certain that you will,” Optimus said, beginning to move forward.

“But later,” Windblade argued, moving again to keep ahead of the Prime. “There is something more pertinent to discuss first, Optimus. And considering the events in Starscream’s quarters–”

Optimus’ head turned to her more directly. “ _What_ events in Starscream’s quarters?”

"Lord Starscream,” Chromia pronounced as if the title pained her to speak, “was attacked in his private quarters not long after the adjourning of the Council. It was by a large mech fitting the physical signifiers of the same suspicious suspects you and the Lost Light captain – er, _one_ of them – identified in your combing of the personnel files. The bot seemed intent on taking credit for the current crisis int he name of Primus.”

Optimus’ head tilted. “And he was apprehended?”

“He vanished right before us through mysterious means,” Windblade answered. “And while that is important, there’s something more just as important that we need to talk about, Optimus Prime. And that is your personal safety.”

“With all of Cybertron and all of its descendants at risk, Windblade, my personal safety is among the lesser of my concerns,” he attempted to wave off. 

“As Prime, _your_ wellbeing is intricately connected with the wellbeing of every spark, Optimus,” Windblade argued. “I wish you would understand that on a fundamental level. But regardless, this goes _beyond_ the fundamental now. Optimus, your wellbeing is _paramount_ to the current crisis given what the attacker said.”

For whatever reason, the reveal did not seem to impress upon Optimus his importance. But he settled his weight back on the heels of his pedes to listen all the same and placed his servos on his hips. “Very well, Windblade. I am listening.”

“The attacker made it clear that they see the outbreak and the devastation it would cause as a _culling_ for Primus,” Windblade explained. “That by ridding those weak to it, the plague would be progressing Cybertronians for the future. His tenses did not make a whole lot of sense.”

“But of course only Windblade looks for sense in a madmech,” Chromia lampooned.

“There may not be reason to such a mech’s actions, Chromia,” Optimus agreed, “but Windblade is right in searching for their goal.”

The bodyguard’s expression wavered momentarily but ultimately her helm nodded forward. “Of course.”

“If these events are bore out of an extremism then I agree that my position places a unique need on myself for action moving forward. Even more than I realized,” Optimus continued. “Though, I sense that is not all you wished to inform me.”

“It isn’t,” Windblade agreed. “While I wasn’t there to catch the entire discussion, Starscream seemed to believe that the attacker – this Error, Starscream called him – was concerned with the Matrix, and those who bore it.”

There was a subtle shift to Optimus as his head tilted toward his his chest and the compartment of his spark chamber. “I see. Fortunately, hunting down the perpetrators of this act of terror on Cybertron was already my priority. If I can concentrate their actions on myself rather than the mechs of this planet and its descendants, I will take a cold comfort in it.”

Windblade frowned, uncertain of how the Prime, a leader of such importance to so many, could so easily face down danger and undermine the importance of his own safety in regards to it all. But it was _not_ her main concentration.

At least not entirely.

“You were not the only one Starscream mentioned,” Windblade explained, stepping closer to scrutinize Optimus’ reaction. “During one of his fits, Starscream mentioned not only _you_ being somebot that Error would concentrate on, but the Lost Light captain as well.”

Optimus tilted his helm. “Megatron?”

“Rodimus,” Windblade corrected. “He mentioned him with regard to the Matrix bearers that Error and whoever else in this conspiracy would be concentrated on.” She stared intently at him. “Is there any reason for that, Optimus?”

“I hold the Matrix,” Optimus responded resolutely. “Starscream speaking out of terms in regards to other is dangerous, and could put others unnecessarily at risk. I would not expect a leader concerned with isolating potential problems to speak so carelessly. But then I suppose there are some expectations for leadership I should learn better than to expect from Starscream.”

Not satisfied with the response, Windblade took to Optimus’ side as he begun moving forward. “But there _is_ reason that Starscream would mention Rodimus, isn’t there? Even he doesn’t idly throw grandeur toward others. Himself? More than possible. But others? Without _reason?_ That is not like the Starscream I have been working alongside this past cycle.”

“Windblade,” Optimus’ deep voice rumbled. “Did you not say that these rumors came from a _fit,_ you called it?” There was a notable annoyance to the tone. “There is no reason for these attackers to think otherwise of it then as well.”

Narrowing her gaze, Windblade kept up her pace. “If it really _isn’t_ more than a delusion from our leader, then I’m certain I won’t be able to ask around Maccadams and hear more about the subject.”

“You will hear war rumors from the place where such rumors belong,” Optimus said testily, “In an Oil House.”

Chromia brushed Windblade’s side and gave the jet a slight shrug when glanced to. She didn’t seem to think it was too much wiser to press the subject with the Prime. But, of course, the bodyguard always did prove to be more pragmatic than Windblade’s own intuitions. 

“Fine, Optimus. I trust your judgment,” Windblade said. “But I _must_ remind you, if there is any information about the Primacy that remains unrevealed to Caminus, the sense of betrayal who have known you only as Prime and not as friend may be difficult to maneuver politically.”

“A _warning,_ Windblade?” Optimus asked, almost impressed.

“A _truth,_ Sir,” she responded quickly. 

“The truth, Windblade, is that leadership comes at a price I am willing to pay but not one I am willing to share,” Optimus clarified. “Not anymore. I have once before and I watched from afar as it destroyed a friend who had been incorruptible by its power.”

Windblade remembered their talk by the collapsed center of the Dead Universe. “Bumblebee,” she filled in the blank.

Optimus gave her another appraising look. 

If there was more to be said on the subject, it was soon overlooked as a ruckus from the crowds ahead drew them all to look there instead where several armed guards were roughly grabbing a cityspeaker whom Windblade recognized almost immediately.

“Badgeless,” Chromia growled.

“They’re trying to take away Hot Shot,” Windblade said in shock just before the Prime moved past her. She did a double take before her optics grew wide and she trailed after. “Optimus! Wait!”

“Unhand me!” the Camien cityspeaker demanded to no avail from the badgeless. he then looked to Windblade and Optimus, head tilting back. “By Solus Prime–”

“What is the meaning of all of this?” Optimus asked thickly of the enforcers. “What crime has this mech committed?”

“Lord Starscream wishes to ensure the safety of our city by questioning all unknown bots with suspicious markings,” one of the badgeless informed them with a wave to the cityspeaker makeup ordaining Hot Shot’s face. “It is believed that suspicious characters with such marks are related to the terrorist attacks on–”

“We do not answer to him,” another guard silenced the collective. He then looked meaningfully toward Optimus as if the plain armored visage should have intimidated even a Prime. “Return to your own business, citizen.”

Optimus’ optics narrowed. “The freedom of _all_ Cybertronians, our descendants, and all sentient life throughout the stars is my business. So I will ask you, please unhand this mech until you can find adequate evidence for detainment.”

The soldiers seemed unmoved at first, hands on their phasers when a few more screams erupted from the crowds around them. 

“ _Now_ what?” Chromia demanded as Windblade saw various bots pointing toward the newsfeeds.

Windblade focused on the looming figure now possessing the screens – a large and imposing mech with strong lines and extra bulk from unidentifiable kibble. But there was no mistaking the mysterious stranger’s face and red print across his face like a reaching hand. 

It was the same mech who had gone after Starscream in his private chamber. 

"Children of Primus,” the mech greeted, “what I bring you today is liberation. A _testament_ to the evolution which has brought you all forward. And a _test_ of your merits for Primus’ plans for the future. For I have seen the errors to come, and the leadership that shall cripple our species should we allow it.” His red optics narrowed. “And allow me to assure you, I shall _not_ allow it again.”

“Is that the attacker, Windblade?” Optimus asked from behind her.

Nodding, Windblade tightened her servos into fists. “Without a doubt, Optimus. It’s–”

The red mech on the screen backed away from whatever camera feed he had been utilizing and revealed standing behind him several mechs of all shapes and forms similarly ordained with black and red paint and the curious red handprint across their faceplates. 

Between them was a large device with what appeared to be a sonic amplifier, directly beside a giant–

Chromia tilted her helm. “Isn’t that–”

“No!” Windblade shouted, leaping to the air and transforming. “Prime! They’re by Metroplex’s t-cog! They’re going to set off the device right beside the titan’s own cog and the entirety of the energon supply throughout the city!”

“Then we must not allow them to succeed! At any cost!” Optimus agreed, transforming himself alongside Chromia.

In a frenzy, the three tore through the alarmed and shouting crowds, heading directly toward Metroplex’s hidden depths.

* * *

Drift narrowed his optics and leaned in closer to the vials, his servo running over the barely visible prick in his cables where the needles had just been. His frown grew a bit as the liquid energy bubbled in response.

“Is it supposed be yellow?” he asked, hoping his concern did not show nearly as much as he felt it.

When he glanced over there was not much reassurance to be found from the medical staff who had been poking and prodding and scanning him for what had felt like ages. They were still very much getting into their own pecking order – something that an outsider may have picked on being the arrival of this untested Velocitronian doctor Knock Out, but that an insider such as Drift could sense _really_ came from the ever growing tension between the three Chief of Medicines. 

Perhaps, among its various other structural issues, the Lost Light was going to have to decide what to do about doctors leaving and returning at will.

With the arguing ongoing between First Aid, Ratchet, and Velocity, Drift got the attention of the unknown doctor. 

Knock Out scoffed, putting his servos on his hips. “Get away from that! You’re liable to break it.”

Optics narrowed, Drift placed his servo on the sword by his side more out of habit than a desire to truly intimidate the mech. 

“It’s from the serum testing, Drift,” Ratchet finally answered, turning away from his fellow doctors to the immediate annoyance of First Aid. “It’s the clearest positive reaction we’ve had so far. It looks like it’s going to work.”

Uplifted at the news, Drift vented. “That’s good to hear.”

“Yes, thank you for volunteering, Drift,” Velocity said, smiling. “I’ll be able to start the next round of testing on actual patients now.” She turned and immediately began gathering the sample they had all been standing around.

“I’m glad to have helped at all,” Drift assured them.

“I still need to adapt it for Velocitronian refinement,” Knock Out said, ignoring the swordsmech to speak to his fellow doctors exclusively. “Really it’s astounding how slow other Cybertronian fuel tanks are. So inefficient.”

“An entire colony of speedsters going through energon like it’s going out of style,” Ratchet muttered with a roll of his optics. “It’s amazing you haven’t burned through every reserve available to you all.”

“I can’t – _None_ of you are listening to me again!” First Aid growled. “Don’t you see what I’m saying? We shouldn’t have had to do _anything_ to Drift’s already available immunity to combat the Red Rust! It’s  a sign that this current outbreak, this virus, is _a new beast entirely!_ More evolved, more developed what we encountered before. This virus was _engineered_ to be tougher.”

"Disease adapts,” Knock Out snapped in return. “If they didn’t then our occupation would manage to be even more droll and routine. That is the _exciting_ part of being a clinician.”

First Aid looked ready to blow a gasket. “You’re not _listening_ to what I’m saying. I was there. I have looked over this disease and those cases more than any of you. We’re looking not at an outbreak but at a _murder spree!”_

"So you guys have time to watch the news, too. Good to know.”

Drift was possibly the least surprised of any of the mechs present to see Rodimus strolling toward him. 

Being on the Lost Light again might have relaxed Rodimus, returned his more scandalizing facade, but Drift was in tune with his captain’s EM field more than most. An anxiety was crackling like static through his field and it had been a loud alarm for his incoming presence to the swordsmech. 

 _Something_ was wrong.

“What’re you on about, Rodimus?” Ratchet asked, tone belaying actual intrigue. 

“Apparently the city’s under attack – and they’re broadcasting their intentions on all open channels,” Rodimus answered, stepping past them all and putting on the nearest screen to give them a first look at the looming figures, all in black and red. “They’re going to release an even bigger dump of their little killing bug thing.”

“Virus,” Velocity corrected, putting the tools she had been gathering in order to join the others gathered around the screen. 

“Whatever,” Rodimus answered, he glanced toward Ratchet. “Have we got a cure.”

“It’s not fully tested out,” Ratchet answered. “But we’re confident in it – looks like First Aid and Knock Out fancy themselves experts on experimental medical technology.”

Again, First Aid bristled. “You’re ranking me with _him?_ We don’t even _know_ him, Ratchet. I’ve been – for the love of – I was keeping patients alive as much as I could on Delphi for months before you got there!”

“Calm down, First Aid, no offense was meant,” Ratchet assured him, hands raised slightly.

“The fact that it wasn’t intended almost makes it _worse!”_ First Aid snapped.

Rodimus glanced at them then looked to Drift and Velocity. “What did I walk in on, exactly?”

"Growing pains,” Velocity answered politely, though the expression she wore might as well have betrayed the real answer. _Squabbling._

Rodimus accepted the non-answer without question. “Right, okay. I need Drift. Are you done using him like a lab rat?”

Knock Out squinted. “A what?”

“Earth saying,” Ratchet dismissed.

The Velocitronian doctor bristled. “Again I say, a _what_ exactly? Lab _rat? Urth?_ I know I keep hearing things on Cybertron that aren’t exactly to be found in the archival data, but this seems to be a completely different language.”

“It is, let it go,” Ratchet grumped before pointing directly at Rodimus. “What do you need Drift for? He’s had a lot of energon siphoned off of him for these tests. I was going to put him on IV for safety. An intake tube if he tried to bless our research one more time.”

“Yeesh, you two are still on about that stuff,” Rodimus marveled. “I need Drift to go with me to investigate something off ship.”

“After as much as you argued to get _on_ this bucket of bolts again?” Knock Out asked, clearly amused.

“Are you dissing a ship to its _captain?_ Really? I oughta boot you, but I’ve fortunately been taking lessons on benevolence lately,” Rodimus snapped back, earning a shake of Ratchet’s helm.

“Rodimus, _don’t_ threaten Council members,” Ratchet chided. 

Drift stretched his limbs, it had been a while since he transformed and finally getting clearance to do so was making him antsy. “Are we going to check out these threats on the news feeds?” Drift asked curiously. 

“You know it,” Rodimus responded without a second’s thought. “Are you up for it?”

Unable to resist his own smirk, Drift nodded. “You know it.”

“We’re not done testing this cure and the two of you want to run into the source of the next outbreak half cocked?” Ratchet asked, unimpressed. “Glad to see that I leave the ship for a bit and return to everyone’s temperaments being exactly the same. You all need a processor scan.”

“Something in the energon at Swerve’s, I guess,” Rodimus dismissed. He then stiffened as First Aid started grabbing things from the various experiments the doctors had been doing. “Uh, sorry to offend, First Aid. Guess I should’ve asked you if Drift was cleared to go or not–”

"Yes, you _should_ have,” First Aid responded snappishly. “But that doesn’t matter right now.”

When First Aid grabbed the yellow energon that Drift had been marveling, the remaining doctors immediately straightened up, aghast. 

“We are not done testing that!” Knock Out growled as First Aid slipped it all into his subspace. “Unhand that–”

"It’s about to get tested,” First Aid declared, glaring at the other doctors. “Or are the three of you not paying attention to the news and the co-captain?”

Rodimus waggled a digit at Knock Out. “Also, for the record, _unhand_ is something only used by bad guys and my co-captain. Who’s a reformed bad guy. Just saying.” The flame adorned speedster then cycled his optics before turning them on First Aid. “Wait! You’re coming with us?”

“You may be more help here, First Aid,” Drift tried to rationalize with the doctor only to see the mech shake his head angrily.

“Obviously not,” First Aid huffed. “You need a doctor who knows what’s going on with you confronting… _whoever_ these Hands of Primus jokers are, and you need someone who won’t be tempted to use their t-cog when stuff starts getting difficult.”

“Sounds reasonable enough,” Rodimus shrugged. “But we’ve got to get moving. Things look like they’re already heating up without me, and I find that pretty unacceptable considering I’m _me._ ” 

Ratchet stepped up and reached to put a hand on First Aid’s shoulder. “First Aid, listen to me for a minute–”

Without even looking Ratchet’s way, First Aid turned toward Velocity. “Take the sample you already have and start the worse of our quarantined cases on it – small doses. Keep watch on their spark readout for adverse effects. Make sure these two are synthesizing the next batch of antidotes while you’re doing that.”

Velocity wavered on her pedes for a moment before reaching for the same tools she had just put down. “Yessir,” she finally answered. 

“Let’s go,” First Aid ordered, heading out the door. 

Rodimus squinted his optics before following. “Did you just order your co-captain? Really?”

Knock Out let out a “feh” and crossed his arms across his chest, head shaking slightly. “Touchy _touchy._ Do you really want to take so much credit for the mech, Ratchet?”

Drift took note of the way Ratchet took great lengths to ignore the jab and instead grabbed Drift’s forearm on his way out the door. 

“Keep an optic out for him,” Ratchet ordered. “There’s been something off about him since he came back.”

“You mean since _we_ came back?” Drift corrected lightly.

“You know what I mean,” Ratchet said, letting Drift go. “And if you start feeling your internal supply’s low or if your processor starts getting dizzy, you need to _not ignore it_ and actually _do something_ for yourself. You hear me? If I have to weld your aft together one more time I’ll make it so you can’t walk straight for an orn!”

“Don’t worry,” Drift smirked on his way out. “Primus will protect me!”

He got almost too much satisfaction out of the sound of Ratchet throwing something that was hopefully inessential to their continued progress and took little to no time to catch up with Rodimus and First Aid going for the nearby MARBs.

“Haven’t been on one of these since Delphi,” Drift huffed. “How poignant.”

“But relevant,” First Aid said. “I know where we’re going – I got to see more of Metroplex as Defensor than I would have ever imagined.”

“Handy,” Rodimus said as they started up their MARBs. His attention then turned toward Drift. “When we get this whole mess taken care of, I need you to help me talk to some of the new members of the crew. Magnus – or, well, he was more _Minimus_ at the time – helped me comb through the new roster again and other than looking for more bogus applications, I had him start separating crew who were from Eukaris. Not as many as you’d think, considering the large number of beastformers added on–”

“Why?” Drift interrupted. “You aren’t _profiling_ based on colonies of origins, are you? You saw that news feed, there were more vehicle-based mechs than there were–”

“What? _No,”_ Rodimus said, waving his servo. “This has nothing to do with the disease. This has to do with that rumor you and I heard at the Oil House, about Eukaris?” 

“From the bot with the beast mode who fit the colors of these… cultists,” Drift said plainly. 

“ _Now_ who’s profiling,” Rodimus replied. “No, really, Drift. I already asked Nautica to go talk to Wheeljack – he’s apparently in charge of the space bridge here in the city. We could get a team together and do a quick search for clues to the Knights of Cybertron that are supposed to be there. That way we would have something quick to give the crew before we start back on course.”

Even with his full attention on the streets below and optics concentrated on following First Aid, Drift could not resist tilting his helm at Rodimus’ announcement. 

“That’s some forward planning,” he observed. “ _Very_ forward.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” Rodimus replied somewhat cockily. “Gotta plan ten steps ahead. Being a leader and whatnot.”

“Who says?” Drift asked. “ _Megatron?_ Megatron plans ten steps ahead of everyone else. Are you modeling yourself after Megatron’s brand of leadership?”

“Didn’t say that,” Rodimus said defensively. Then, with only a slight pause, “But, I mean, planning ahead’s not exactly a bad thing.”

“Of course not, and it’s something I expect from a leader,” Drift said. “Of course, I was also a Decepticon for far longer than I was an Autobot, so few aspiring Autobot leaders would probably take my counsel on the matter.”

“I would,” Rodimus said with a touch of painful truthfulness to his words. His optics glanced toward Drift once again. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not a leader,” Drift replied, free servo securely resting on the hilt of his favored sword. “So my main concern is _the moment_.”

* * *

The depths of Metroplex were more difficult to navigate from the ground than the air, judging by the speed and maneuverability that Windblade was putting on display, but Optimus was managing to keep in step, so to speak.

The congestion of the trek was only partially due to the layout of Metroplex’s internal structure, too. 

There was something unnatural and heavy to the way the Matrix sat in his chassis. A sort of dread that Optimus didn’t know how to convey to those who had not bore it as well, and maybe not even to those who had. 

It was warning, it was danger – but most worrisome to Optimus was that it was _unknown._

Through the Matrix, he felt _connected_ to every spark. He felt a comprehension of every Cybertronian, friend or foe, that could not be articulated. Only sensed and nurtured. 

That was not what he felt speeding toward these mechs threatening the planet Optimus had sacrificed nearly everything for a few times over. He recognized _sparks_ and _Cybertronians_ still, he could sense that above almost all else, but there was no familiarity between the Matrix and their sparks. There wasn’t a tug between them that Optimus was used to sensing.

They made the Matrix feel blind to them. It did not _know_ them and Optimus needed to be closer before determining whether or not the sensation was the same confused and muddled static some more distant colonists gave him, or if it was something altogether.

At the very least, whether he believed in fabled gods and the true spirituality behind the artifact in his chest, Optimus was familiar enough to say that these were not acts of _Primus_ being conveyed through their actions. 

“Transforming in the middle of the plague,” Chromia muttered, just a length ahead of Optimus himself. Her attention was so intent on her charge that she nearly swerved into various obstacles along the way. “We’re as senseless as her.”

“To have a tenth of the determination Windblade shows with merit is far from a condemnation of character, Chromia,” Optimus replied over the rumble of his engine. “And the moment called for expediency on all of our parts.”

“Those words would be more comforting _after_ a battle,” Chromia noted. 

“Then we should make the upcoming one quick so they are more fitting,” Optimus declared, taking the last turn just as sharply as the smaller mech in order to cross into Metroplex’s t-cog chamber. 

In full momentum, Optimus transformed from vehicle mode, sliding to a halt just before the awaiting red and black cultists’ gathering. He stood tall, gun already readied and optics focused on the mechs before him while Chromia and Windblade transformed and similarly landed on either side of him. 

The mechs, namely those of average size or smaller, turned with some varying degrees of surprise – those nearest the sonic device that they had seen on the broadcast were especially alarmed, one even dropping the tools they had been using to tune the device.

“My fellow Cybertronians,” Optimus called to the group, “it is time that you stopped this madness while there still is time. Before any more of our brothers or sisters come to harm.”

“And away from Metroplex,” Windblade added, anger clear in the tenor. “The Titan has only provided for us – and the damage done to _all of us_ if he were to be infected by this plague would be immeasurable.”

Short on words as always, Chromia merely balanced her weapon and lent a warning glare toward the group before them.

While more than a few broke into a low mumble, backing away from the group, the minibot recording for the broadcast swept from the three of them back toward the shadows he had been facing before. 

From the shadows a low, eager laugh erupted and drew Optimus’ optics toward the emerging figure. Error – the mech that Windblade had recognized as Starscream’s attacker – was a large mech, larger even than Optimus himself. He matched the black and red patterns of the group, the same but more intricate painted hand print on his faceplate, and large kibble adorned his back and shoulders. 

The Matrix filled Optimus’ spark with a dread of the unknown – with a complete lack of recognition toward him. 

“I should not be impressed with your timing,” Error said almost giddily. “Forgive me, despite my best efforts to do the opposite, I seem to have underestimated you.” His red optics focused in on Windblade, an expression of scorn overcoming his features. “Which could not be given to your choice of company.”

Chromia growled, stepping forward only to be stopped by Optimus’ outstretched arm.

“Then you were expecting me,” Optimus said more than he asked. 

“Of course,” Error replied, motioning toward the sonic device. “If I had set off the plague citywide _before_ you got here I could not have guaranteed your direct appearance. You might have even bothered to gather more soldiers than these two ineffctual pawns.”

Still not entirely sure what to make of the declaration, Optimus straightened, his finger heavy on the trigger of his weapon. “You have my attention,” Optimus told him. “What do you wish to do with it?”

“You are proclaimed as a Prime,” Error said simply. “As the one guided by Primus’ very hand, it is my _duty_ and my _privilege_ to test your worthiness. To determine whether you have the _right_ to take part in Primus’ grand new plan.”

Not intimidated by religious superstition, Optimus stood his ground. “It would sound to some like _you_ are proclaiming quite a title yourself.”

Error carried a smile on his face as he stepped further into the room’s center, squaring off with Optimus. He kept his chin up and shoulders rolled back, exhibiting his confidence with the sort of bravado of someone already certain of their victory. 

That did not deter Optimus’ own quiet determination – he had seen the same facade worn by those who found themselves defeated by the Prime in battle several times over. There was nothing to suggest that this _Error_ was any different. 

Except for the cold reaction of the Matrix.

“Keep the other two at bay,” Error ordered the mechs around him. “I want this to remain between myself and the Prime.”

"Good luck keeping us back,” Windblade ground out, sword readied. 

“No, Windblade,” Optimus said, holding up a hand to steady her advancement. 

Windblade turned wide optics on him. “But, Optimus–”

“You and Chromia need to make certain that device is _not_ used, and that everyone complicit in this crime are not given the opportunity to escape,” he explained, nodding to her. “It is an arduous task, but I must ask the two of you to do it while I settle whatever outrage Error is convinced I have caused. For the sake of Cybertron as well as its colonies and the fragile peace between us all.”

Though she still seemed ready to fight the direction, Windblade conceded with a nod. “Of course, Prime.”

“Consider it done,” Chromia said far more readily.

Neither Optimus nor Error moved as Chromia and Windblade went to work, the red and black mechs following suit. 

Optimus narrowed his gaze. He refused to be unnerved by the continuing presence of Error’s smile. “Do you have a weapon?”

Error opened his palms holding his arms outstretched as he kept focus on Optimus. “Primus has provided me with the weapons of his discretion.” 

Dissatisfied with the answer, Optimus stepped forward. “If you do not wish to fight then perhaps you are still willing to speak. To talk this through,” he offered instead, gun dropping to his hip but still readied. “If your beliefs are in Primus, then you must understand that they do not give you the right to harm his other creations. No matter if you agree with their choices or not. Their _choices_ are their right.”

“That sort of rhetoric is what will cause our kind’s greatest error as a species,” Error replied with a click of his vocalizer. “I had my suspicions that the weakness in the lineage of the Primes had started with you.” His red optics flickered back to Optimus darkly. “Now I will make sure it will end with you.”

Without warning, Error rushed forward, a fire erupting from his palms and engulfing the area around them. 

Optimus gritted his denta behind the guard of his mask. The flames licked and fringed him but he knew them to be a distraction. his gun firing at Error during the mech’s lunge. 

It hit, but only the armor guarding Error’s thigh as the giant mech had leaped to the air and struck out with his flaming hands for Optimus’ chassis. It was a bold move, but one that gave Optimus enough time to block the servos reaching for him with his free arm. 

With his pedes planted firm, Optimus bent back and utilized Error’s momentum to fling him over Optimus’ head. 

Before Error could even land, Optimus was turned back on his heels and aiming with his gun once again. 

His aim was off when he fired, and Optimus was initially surprised at that until a wave of vertigo began to hit him and nearly took him off his pedes all together. The world growing a red tinge to it. 

The change’s onset was so sudden that Optimus wasn’t even sure what had happened.

Error stood tall, flames still flaring from the servos by his side, his face coated in broad excitement.

“Primus’ judgment has been passed – you are condemned to suffer with it,” Error announced. “I won’t take the pleasure of your demise from him–”

“It is a disease, Error,” Optimus said, clouded mind already filled with the certainty that he had been infected. “One that does not discriminate. One that does not judge. It is a matter of _infection.”_ He turned angry optics on the mech. “If it were, and if you were the hand of determination, then you would transform on camera for all to see the lack of fear you have for your own well being.”

"Optimus!” Windblade’s voice called over the loud sounds of battle elsewhere in the chamber, but Optimus did not waver from his gaze directly on the zealot before him.

Error’s smile left his face. “Primus does not look kindly on those who test his will. He has not directed me to change.”

Unsurprised, Optimus pushed back onto his pedes and stood despite the static of his processor at the motion. He could feel the fluids running over his face. “I do not know your familiarity with me, Error, but long before the war whose dust has barely settled, I stood against _many_ who dared to believe their wills outweighed the rights of their fellow sentient beings. They wore many disguises and hid behind many names, sometimes for the name of politics and sometimes for the name of religion. All proved only to be selfish when placed under the right light.” He withdrew his mouthplate. “It is my continuing aspiration to visible, to be _known,_ and to be _questioned_ by all those I live to serve.” His optics narrowed. “What transparency does your proposed order offer? Why should you be followed?”

The humor had all left Error. His denta bared as he stepped forward to answer Optimus’ challenge. 

Despite himself, despite the screams of pain shooting through his joints, Optimus stepped forward as well. A step which ultimately proved to be a miscalculation as his knees crumbled beneath the weight. He let out a low grunt, gnashing his denta as he dropped onto one knee and wavered. 

The disease was fast acting, and he could already feel his systems internally breaking down, the energon corroding as it flowed through him.

“I offer them someone stronger than you,” Error replied, flames flaring up once more. “You have been judged, Prime–”

The words had barely left Error’s mouth when there was a familiar engine revving broke through the chamber and drew all’s attention. Optimus listened, though his head proved difficult to lift up and see for himself.

There was a loud crash and Error roared, the heat of his flames leaving Optimus’ presence unexpectedly. 

The Prime managed to lift his head up just enough as someone landed by his side. He recognized the MARB hovering just a short distance away as something of Ratchet’s. 

“Hold on, Prime,” First Aid’s voice called as the smaller bot landed on his knees beside him. In his servos was a needle filled with a bubbling yellow liquid. “We got the cure.”

“Cure?” Optimus repeated. “Have others gotten–”

“They’re taking care of that on the Lost Light,” the doctor assured him before injecting Optimus with the full contents of the syringe. “Right now, let’s just worry about getting you out of your own rust.”

Optimus found himself impressed the commanding presence First Aid had found for himself – it was quite different than the Bot who had stepped off the transport with Mirage and several others just before the Combiner crisis. 

It almost reminded him of Ratchet when they were far younger. 

While he was certain that the cure was not immediate, the Matrix was thrumming strongly in his chest again and inspiring Optimus to get up despite First Aid’s immediate objections. 

He looked for the cause of the Matrix’s strong response – his head clearing of its static and allowing him to hear the sounds of metal against metal – the constant moving of a familiar swordsmech – and even more than all of that the bot whose engine had sounded before knocking Error off his course.

Rodimus looped back around to Optimus’ side, weapons trained on their red and black enemy. “Optimus! Are you…?”

“I am treated, Rodimus. I am no longer down,” Optimus assured him. “Should you be transforming between modes in the middle of battle like that?”

“First Aid’s part of my crew who _didn’t_ mutiny, I trust him to patch me up,” Rodimus replied dryly. “Given, he wasn’t around to take sides–”

“ _NO!”_

Surprised by the outburst, Optimus joined the others in looking at Error. The bulky mech heaved, venting thick black smoke in multiple parts of his form. He looked absolutely enraged, focused on Optimus, Rodimus, and First Aid. 

“This is _not_ how things were meant to be!” he snarled. “I objected to this fate!”

Rodimus tilted his helm in confusion, forearms still aimed for Error. “Well, we object to the fate of leaking rust out of our optics! So weird that our goals didn’t line up at the end.”

“Rodimus,” Optimus warned. 

The speedster’s jaw clicked closed audibly. 

Error pointed more toward Rodimus. “You will _not_ humiliate the name of Primus again. I will not allow it!”

Taken aback, Rodimus looked to Optimus then back to Error. “Wait, have we met? You’ll have to be more specific. It’s amazing how many mechs have been humiliated by my crew.”

"This will not stand,” Error snarled, having no direct reaction toward Rodimus’ prodding. “For Primus’ sake, I _shall_ purge this species of the mistakes made to his legacy. And I _shall_ start with the Primacy itself.”

Optimus still felt his joints and gears grinding against him, but he pressed forward to face Error’s claims yet again only for the mech to throw out his arms and release an explosion of flames yet again. The three of them stepped back and the fighting around the chamber paused. 

What cultists had not already fallen in the battle to Chromia, Drift, and Windblade raced toward the flames engulfing their leader. They disappeared behind the wall and left the five injured or incapacitated bots behind without so much as a second glance. 

“Hey, wait!” Rodimus snarled, leaping into the flames no one else could bear only for the fire to disappear, leaving him coughing through the wisps of smoke left behind by the motion. “What the frag!?”

“They… disappeared,” Drift spoke up, nearing where Rodimus stood. His sharp eyes glanced around for further clues. 

“Just like he did after the attack on Starscream,” Windblade announced, putting a hand to her chin. “And we didn’t get any real answers from him then either.”

“Yeah, well, not _all_ of them escaped in a burst of fire,” Chromia reminded them all, making a point to kick one of the bots beneath her pede. “What are the odds of getting some answers out of one of these?”

Optimus still felt drained, like he was hardly running on anything, despite knowing that his energon was still thick in all of his systems. “We must hope that they are high, Chromia,” Optimus responded. “I do not feel confident that this was the last we would see of this Error.”

And though he knew Rodimus was not aware of it, Optimus took a long look at his fellow Autobot with scrutiny. 

Despite Error’s talk about the Primacy and Primes, there was no denying that the zealot was most concerned with and apalled by Rodimus. 

The Matrix’s draw was difficult to ignore. 


	6. 2.1 Space Bridge to Ground Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we’re moving on to Part II! How exciting. We’ll be shifting gears a bit and breaking up our main parties a bit, but hopefully you guys can entrust me to bring it all around ; ) I have quite the trip planned for us all.
> 
> And special thanks to Isame, @secretlystephaniebrown, and ScribeProtra for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part II: The Fire Down Below  
Chapter 2.1: Space Bridge to Ground Control**

Loathe as he might have once been to admit it, Megatron knew there was a very subtle methodology to Rodimus’ madness more often than not. 

It had taken a while for him to get to the point where he could accept that the Nyonian freedom fighter turned Autobot four million years later was the excitable, listless, and incorrigible co-captain of the Lost Light, and then took even longer for him to see the merits and potential beneath that the high command of the Autobots must have seen underneath the surface all along. 

In other words, Megatron had spent more than his fair share evaluating the puzzle that was Rodimus. 

So when, not even three deca-cycles had passed and he learned – _secondhand,_ no less – that Rodimus was attempting to get them back in space, Megatron’s initial thought was _what_ could have been motivating the speedster? What, short of scraplets, would have them trying to escape their homeworld after having hardly recovered from its artificial plague?

Megatron was determined to get answers as he came onto the bridge, ignoring the slightest limp still in his gait. 

He just wasn’t anticipating the real answer being projected on hologram right in front of his co-captain.

“Rodimus, Cybertron is healing still,” the Prime’s familiar voice boomed. The projection right in front of Rodimus, despite lacking the exact heights and details of the Autobot leader, managed to convey an impressive stature and intimidation all the same. “Your premature departure will be a grave mistake. There needs to be a show of solidarity between us all.”

Arms crossed over his chest and finials raised high, Rodimus seemed to be on the full defense. “Says the mech who’s leading a covert ops group in another galaxy with his free time. I don’t see you calling back _your_ guys right now,” Rodimus replied.

Though Megatron’s respect for Optimus had not in _eons_ caused him to refrain from sharp words, he still found himself taken aback that _Rodimus_ would go so far. And, judging by the way several members of the crew ducked out of sight after the rebuttal, or how Ultra Magnus covered his faceplate with a large servo and sighed, he wasn’t the only one. 

“The forces on Earth are working to specifically maintain peace with a protectorate,” Optimus defended readily. “Those of us who were here on Cybertron for the attacks have remained to mend our fellow Cybertronians.”

“Right,” Rodimus said dryly. “But suddenly the Lost Light’s mission – the one _you_ mandated we get back on to continue Megatron’s trial – does nothing for building Cybertronian unity or anything.”

At the mention of his trial and entire purpose of remaining on the Lost Light, Megatron was rocked from the moment and reminded he needed to get to the bottom of what exactly was happening on his bridge.

Crossing the distance silently, Megatron reached Ultra Magnus’ side. The second-in-command stood by with expressions ranging from mortified to exhausted but he did not react much to Megatron’s presence. Magnus was one of the few for whom that was the normal case. 

“What exactly is happening here?” Megatron asked. 

“Optimus Prime is attempting to bar our departure,” Ultra Magnus answered readily, the words seemingly paining him. “Rodimus’ response has been to declare that since the crew is nearly half non-declared allegiances and that the Lost Light is a private vessel, he cannot commandeer it utilizing the Autobot command structure in a post-war environment.” The former duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accord then grimaced again. “He is _technically_ correct. however the entire command structure of this ship _is_ Autobot. I am currently looking for a case of precedence to sway the decision in one direction or the other.”

“In between pantomiming for Rodimus to stop himself before permanently damaging his future,” Megatron replied dryly.

“In between that, yes,” Ultra Magnus sighed. 

“Thank you for the clarification, Ultra Magnus,” Megatron said, motioning toward the ongoing argument. “However I was also wondering what exactly this is I hear about Rodimus declaring we’re launching soon. I’ve barely gotten through the new roster and assigned new shipping duties.”

“Yes, that,” Ultra Magnus sighed. “Rodimus has prematurely declared our departure. In his words, _for reasons.”_

Megatron narrowed his gaze. “And that’s an adequate reason for us to uproot everyone prematurely?”

“No,” Ultra Magnus replied shortly. “However, as I understand it, this current argument between Prime and Rodimus is, in truth, a hold over from one that has been ongoing since Rodimus was on foot on Cybertron.”

“That doesn’t make it more adequate of an excuse,” Megatron said flatly.

“It does not,” Ultra Magnus agreed. 

Venting in frustration himself, Megatron stepped up to the communication deck where Rodimus and Prime were continuing their squabble. 

Rodimus didn’t react to Megatron’s approach outside of glancing him over, but Optimus stopped arguing altogether and appraised Megatron almost disdainfully.

“Megatron,” Optimus said thinly.

“Prime,” Megatron responded with just as much of a growl. He then planted his heavy servo on Rodimus’ servo, causing the tinier bot to bristle even as his shoulder dropped under the weight. “If you will hold momentarily, it seems I need to speak with my co-captain.”

“We are not done here, Megatron,” Optimus replied immediately. 

“Yeah, Megs,” Rodimus snapped in turn only to be forcibly turned around and pushed toward the bridge’s captaincy office. “Hey!”

“Ultra Magnus,” Megatron called out as he passed the second-in-command. “Please see if you and Prime can come to some sort of understanding that my fellow captain obviously could not reach within the next vorn.”

Ultra Magnus frowned, fully aware that Megatron was throwing him to the proverbial turbofoxes with regards to Prime, but he was still obedient to a rather obvious fault. He nodded stiffly and continued forward onto the bridge toward the communicator. 

“My apologies for the heated discussion, Optimus Prime, but I know you are more aware of the stresses being experienced by everyone during these dark days,” Magnus began as he continued his approach toward Optimus.

Megatron kept his optics focused forward as he pushed the struggling Rodimus toward the office and shut the door behind them.

“What the frag, Megs!?” Rodimus snapped readily, ripping himself away from Megatron’s touch as soon as possible and whirling back around on his co-captain.

“What are you _thinking?”_ Megatron demanded. “Or have I been tricked in all this time into giving you too much credit in thinking that you’re _thinking_ whatsoever?”

“I’m defending the rights of this ship and its crew to leave whenever the Pit it wants!” Rodimus snapped. “He has _no_ power to stop us – even _Starscream_ has us cleared for departure. He’d probably kick the throttle for us if we offered it.”

Narrowing his optics, Megatron crossed his arms. “Why should we care about what Starscream approves or doesn’t approve of?”

“We don’t!” Rodimus yelled, throwing up his arms. “But that makes Optimus’ whole bad attitude right now make even _less_ sense because it’s not _about him!”_

"Who is it about then, Rodimus?” Megatron asked skeptically, helm tilted. ” _You,_ I suppose?”

Rodimus stopped in his tracks and turned sharply to square with Megatron. His optics narrowed, shining bright with intensity. “What’s your problem?”

“I am having the same problem that I’ve been having since this ship became my personal purgatory,” Megatron snapped sharply “Why are you _determined_ to make a designation for yourself as the aft end of every situation?”

“And here four million years of scrap had me thinking you’d take every opportunity in the cosmos to stick it to Optimus,” Rodimus scoffed. “Seriously, frag off – I’m done with this conversation. I need a lecture from _you_ about dealing with Optimus about as much as Tyrest needs another hole in his head–”

“You need to learn when to step down,” Megatron spat out as Rodimus threatened to leave. 

Looking utterly in awe, Rodimus stopped and stared at Megatron as if he were growing a second head on his shoulders. 

“What,” Rodimus said flatly. “Are you being _serious_ right now? You? _You_ are telling me that I need to learn when to step down from a fight? _Really?”_

Staying his ground, Megatron narrowed his optics and stood in the way of the door. “I am speaking from millenia of experience, Rodimus. You would do well to take my word at _least_ under advisement.”

“Done,” Rodimus hissed. “And how about you take _mine_ under advisement, Megs? _Learn how to stand up for your crew.”_

Not waiting a moment longer, Rodimus viciously pressed past Megatron. The former warlord did not give him much of a fight, simply watching as the captain moved through the door and avoided the communication deck. Opting instead to move over toward Nautica and another quantum mechanic that had joined their crew. 

Magnus came to Megatron’s side, obviously displeased. “We are ready for launch whenever you… _one_ of you gives the word,” he informed Megatron.

“About that,” Megatron grouched. “Why is he not running anything by me? I am the captain.”

“It could be worse,” Magnus offered. “When we originally launched, he hung up on Bumblebee and _Prowl.”_

Megatron sighed and placed a servo over his faceplate. “Is he _that_ determined to reach this _Eukaris?”_

Nodding, Ultra Magnus vented. “I’m afraid I’ve found that when Rodimus truly _is_ determined, there is not much which can deter him.”

Glaring forward, Megatron shook his head. “Prepare us for launch then, Ultra Magnus. The sooner we’re off Cybertron the sooner I am away from the looming shadows of Prime and Starscream.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ultra Magnus responded, moving toward the deck. 

* * *

In the weeks following the general end to the Red Rust plague, the public began to quickly forget its former panic even if the Council and various higher ups in Cybertron’s political circles did not. 

Chromia found that to be similar to the case of things after the Combiner crisis. She just wasn’t certain if it was a general populace thing or if, for Cybertronians, four million years of chaos after chaos had generally numbed them all to the greater ripple effects of each crisis. 

Speaking to Ironhide, she tended to tread toward the latter, however. 

“So why are you telling me this and not Windbalde?” she asked as she walked through the halls of capital’s lower levels shoulder to shoulder with the security bot. “She’s got more connections than I do.”

“She’s also got Starscream breathing down her neck cables when she doesn’t have someone else in the Council actin’ like they’ve got a scraplet crawled up their aft,” Ironhide replied crudely. “And, c’mon, Chromia. You and I have a lot more of an understanding.”

Though a fond smile quirked itself on her intake, Chromia merely tilted her head at the claim. “Oh?” she pressed. 

“You ‘n I are both of the same mindset,” Ironhide said, tapping on the side of his helm. “We got it hardwired in here, being bodyguards. Protecting and serving.” 

Ironhide came to a slow stop in the hall, bringing Chromia to do the same. A distinct flicker in his optics caught Chromia’s attention almost immediately. 

“We know when to throw ourselves into the line of fire when it means protecting our mechs,” he asserted. When Chromia didn’t disagree, he glanced around carefully and refocused on her her. “Where’s Windblade?”

“She has two meetings for the morning. First with Wheeljack discussing the reopening of the spacebridges. Then she needed to meet with the Eukarian delegates – apparently they had concerns about the Lost Light’s crew making their way to Eukaris, but when they went to Starscream he claimed it was not a Cybertronian matter,” Chromia answered dutifully. “Where is the Prime?”

“He’s upstairs, trying to talk sense into soldiers that probably don’t have it anymore,” Ironhide huffed. “And now you’ve got me curious – did ‘Screamer have a particularly fowl mood when he dismissed the delegates?”

Chromia scowled. “Is there some way to differentiate his fowlness at different levels? They all feel distinctly intolerable to me.”

There was a good humored smirk on Ironhide’s face at that, but it didn’t carry to his voice much. “Reason I’m asking is, if he’s angrier than usual, I can offer you an explanation as to why. And _that’s_ why I’ve got you down here with me.”

“Alright,” Chromia said, crossing her arms. “Surprise me.”

“Our fearless leader might be a bit antsy since we never got any information from those cultists,” Ironhide began methodically slow. 

Not immediately seeing where the comment was heading, Chromia shrugged. “While that’s certainly an annoyance, and it _has_ been several weeks, it’s not as if we’re aware of anymore ticking clocks on getting information on them.”

Ironhide grimaced. “Except there apparently _was_ one. And now it’s run out.”

“What? What do you mean?” Chromia demanded.

“All those bots we had in lockup? They never said a word the whole time they were here, no matter how we questioned them,” Ironhide explained. “And as of this morning, every last one of them has offlined. Permanently.”

Shocked, Chromia dropped her arms to her sides. “What do you mean? _How_ has this happened? You mean to tell me you fight a war for four million years and you can’t learn to interrogate prisoners with _nonlethal_ measures!?”

Holding up a hand, Ironhide stopped her. “Hey hey, for once this isn’t a matter of Starscream’s enforcers dropping the buck,” he explained. “No one had anything to do with this except for the cultists themselves.” Ironhide shook his head. “Refusing rations, purposeful overrunning of their systems without recharge day in and day out, and – according to autopsy – whenever they weren’t under observation these fraggers were transforming without pause.” His optics grew harder. “Chromia, these poor bastards managed to off themselves _in custody_ without so much as giving a _hint_ to what their group was about and what any future goals might’ve been. Now, I might just be an old bot at the end of the day, but it sounds to _me_ like these mechs thought there was something worth taking to the Afterspark.”

Taken aback, Chromia shook her head. “By Solus Prime,” she whispered. 

Ironhide offered her a sympathetic gaze. “I know,” he said. “I hardly knew how to take it myself. But it just makes it clear that whatever these poor bastards are involved in, it’s seriously enough to them to wanna die for it.”

Ordinarily, on her own, Chromia would have allowed the commentary to stand on its own. But she supposed that she had finally spent enough time around Windblade to have had that infectious, curious spirit rub off on her some.

“Well, if it’s as _simple_ as that,” Chromia said, eyeing Ironhide seriously. “Maybe we just need to take what their leader said at face value then. He kept mentioning being the Hand of Primus, about being concerned with the Primal legacy and cleansing Cybertron of those not chosen by Primus.” Her optics hardened. “Sounds to _me_ like a lot to do with the Prime himself.”

“I agree,” Ironhide responded readily. “Which is why I’m making it my business from this point forward to stick by Prime’s side. Watch his back – just like I always have.” 

Chromia crossed her arms across her chassis. “And, of course, that’s the _only_ Prime to be concerned with.” Her helm tilted. “Because if there _was_ someone else that had claim to the Primacy, and they were a target, then it’d be our ‘business’ to ensure their safety as well, wouldn’t it?”

At first, Ironhide looked somewhat lost. But his optics widened and he let out a snort of realization. “Are you talking about that business with Rodimus?”

Immediately, Chromia leaned in. “What business? Let me in on the joke, Ironhide.”

“It’s not a joke, I guess. Not really. I mean, it’s no joke when the Matrix merges with someone. I didn’t mean it quite like that,” Ironhide explained, waving his servos. “A few years ago, right at the end of the war, we were still stranded more or less on Earth and the Matrix had been taken by the Decepticons – by _Starscream_ no less. Now I wasn’t there – not that I _remember_ anyway. It was one of the times I died – fun stories, remind me to tell you some over at Macadams sometime – but Rodimus got his wires crossed and decided to get the Matrix back himself.”

Surprised, Chromia dropped her arms back by her sides. “And he succeeded.”

The old mech scratched at his neck cables. “Eh.”

 _“Eh?”_ Chromia repeated. “What’s _eh?_ Come on, Ironhide. This could be important – you’re the only one on this planet capable of producing straight answers for me.”

"He got the Matrix,” Ironhide explained. “He just got blown in half by Megatron next.”

Chromia cycled her optics. “His co-captain?”

“The _war criminal,_ yes,” Ironhide huffed out. “Point being, after that, there’s not a whole lot any of us know about what happened. Somehow, he merged with the Matrix, it saved him, and he ended up on a planet where he found Wheelie. You’ve met Wheelie, haven’t you? Funny li’l guy. Speaks in rhymes. Can’t figure _that_ out for the life of me.” 

Annoyed to be derailed once more, Chromia growled and stepped forward. “What happened with the Matrix?” 

“Long story short, Rodimus, Wheelie, that organic guy Garnak, Sunstreaker, and me got back to Prime and the others on Earth. And Rodimus gave the Matrix back to Prime, where it _belonged,”_ Ironhide surmised quickly. “He wasn’t a Prime. Not really. He just, I don’t know, kept it warm for Prime for a bit.”

Halfway between annoyed and completely perplexed, Chromia pointed aggressively at the larger mech. “And that’s just, what, completely inconsequential now? What sense does that make? _Matrix affinity should be a holy precedent.”_

Ironhide clammed up, taking his turn to cross his arms defensively at her. “It is. That’s why the Matrix goes to Prime, why I’d do anything Prime’d ask me – with or _without_ the Matrix in his spark chamber. I ain’t trying to say that what Rodimus did isn’t fraggin’ amazing. It is. And the kid’s got spark – I like him. He honestly kinda reminds me of Prime. But he _ain’t_ a Prime no more than, say, _Thunderclash.”_

Confused, Chromia dropped her servo. “Thunderclash? Who’s that?”

“A decorated and beloved Autobot,” Ironhide smirked. “Held the Matrix for Prime for a bit during the war, too. What? Didn’t hear of  that?”

“No, I hadn’t,” Chromia said lowly. “The cultists didn’t so much as mention it. Neither did Starsream.” 

“Then obviously it’s not the right thread for us to be tracing at the moment,” Ironhide dismissed out of hand. He turned back around in the hall to start their way back toward the upper levels of the building. 

“Maybe,” Chromia muttered, following suit. “Or _maybe_ there’s a connection we haven’t seen yet.”

* * *

No one had exactly warned Starscream that ruling Cybertron meant having to be constantly bothered with its more mundane problems as well. 

While he refuted the very notion of being anyone’s simple cautionary tale, the idea that his more pressing matters, that his very _vision_ for Cybertron itself, would need to take a backseat to the constant inquiries about city energon flow and continuous charters for expansion and construction outside of Metroplex, Civilian concerns might have been founded in their own minds, but Starscream was _more_ than certain he would go down in history for his big, sweeping moves.

So he felt no regrets for throwing tasks Rattrap’s way that were more beneath his attention. 

“Rattrap,” he beckoned as he walked down the halls of the capital. 

The beastformer ran up to his side in beastmode before transforming and racing to keep in step with Starscream. 

“You bellowed, Lord Starscream?” he asked.

“I need you to man my offices while I visit with the _good doctors_ downstairs,” he informed his assistant. “There are a few items on my desk which you can take care of as well. And a meeting with Ironhide in a few hours. Don’t _tell_ him anything, just make him feel about how he feels when I’m answering to him myself.”

Rattrap tilted his helm curiously. “So… blinding hot rage?”

Starscream couldn’t help but smirk. “Well, I know it won’t be anything _remotely_ comparable to my expertise in the area, but I trust you to adequately frustrate him.”

“Sure thing,” Rattrap said, some reservation still clear in his voice. “Its just that… Well, what _exactly_ is he wanting to see ya about?”

“The prisoners,” Starscream answered. “He wants to talk about the prisoners that died. _Again._ As if I am not taking the situation as seriously as he is. I am _more_ than aware of what advantage we have lost by all of them extinguishing their sparks.”

“Right, about that…” Rattrap attempted to drawl out. “What _are_ we doing about that whole situation? I mean, I’ve kept it on the down low – just like you asked. Those reporters sniffing around all the time haven’t even heard about it yet! But _when_ civilians start hearing about this they might panic again if we don’t have any answers…”

“Rattrap,” Starscream snapped, drawing the beastformer to look at him curiously as he reached the research labs that once Wheeljack inhabited. “If you would go and _do as I say,_ I will continue to _get_ those answers. Do you understand?”

Whether he truly understood or not, Rattrap saluted Starscream. “Sure thing, Lord Starscream! Leave it all to me!” he claimed as he transformed and started back from where they had came. 

Starscream scowled after him. “I wouldn’t leave more to you than I could do without having done at all, Rattrap,” he growled only for his own audials. Though, of course, they were never the only ones to overhear them. 

 _You owe him a lot, I’d go a bit easier on him if I were you,_ Bumblebee offered. _You need him in your corner more than you’re counting on now._

With a roll of his optics, Starscream pressed the doors to the lab open. “My _counting_ is deeply negative at the moment so you’re not saying _much._ Now be quiet for once.”

Almost as soon as Starscream had stepped inside of the lab, he found himself with Knock Out right in front of him, optics eased and a lazy smirk across his faceplate. “Lord Starscream, what an _honor_ to see you here. Especially so _unexpectedly.”_

Immediately suspicious, Starscream glanced around the facility and did not take long to find a hulking, unexpected mass of a mech sitting on one of the exam tables toward the center of the lab. 

Intake curling, Starscream turned testily on the Velocitronian delegate. “Is there an _unauthorized_ civilian around highly sensitive and confidential state research?” he demanded angrily. 

Knock Out then made it his turn to look disgusted. “ _Civilian,_ Lord Starscream? I would never.” He waited for a beat and then shrugged his shoulders. “This is my conjunx endura, Breakdown.”

For a moment, Starscream merely leered at the two before growing a far more disturbed look upon his faceplate. “What exactly, if not confidential and secretive breakthrough research, _were_ you doing with your conjunx endura?” he snapped suspiciously glancing between the two of them.

The so-called Breakdown looked immediately angered by the insinuation even while Knock Out got a genuine laugh from it. 

“No worries. I never said what he was doing in here wasn’t _also_ breakthrough research,” Knock Out replied with a wave of his servo. 

“Breakdown was Velocitronian Patient Zero.”

Surprised to hear his voice, Starsceam turned and looked to see for himself that behind a few of the monitors was none other than First Aid, the smaller mech that had been at the heart of Prime’s little _squabble_ with Error and his cultists. 

"Testing his reaction to the outbreak and how it differs from all my available case samples of other Cybertronians and colonists will be helpful in figuring out just what is different about this virus,” First Aid continued.

“That seems very reasonable, Doctor,” Starscream replied, coming over to the station that First Aid had made for himself in the lab. “My apologies for not acknowledging you when I entered. I had _assumed_ with the Lost Light taking off today that among its crew would be their _Chief Medical Officer.”_

First Aid paused his typing long enough to glance over the monitors toward Starscream. There was an angry lilt to his voice as he said, “I am still CMO. But I go where I’m needed. I’ll catch up with the ship after their current _detour_. Right now…” he glanced back down to his work, “there’s more than enough doctors for one ward.”

Starscream tilted his helm curiously. “Detour?”

“We have plenty of them,” First Aid replied without truly answering. 

Squinting at First Aid, Starscream decided against revealing much more of his knowledge on the subject. Knowledge like just _what_ the detour entailed and how it was upsetting the Eukarian delegates. 

Sometimes it was best to act the fool. Whether Bumblebee agreed with it or not.

“Still, to not have your vastly commendable skills with them is a blow to their entire medical staff,” Starscream flattered.

Once more, First Aid stopped typing and looked up at Starscream. Confusion conflicted with suspicion on First Aid’s faceplate and he slowly tilted his head himself at Starscream. “Thank you?” he asked, uncertain.

“It’s my hope that your research in these facilities can give us all a _true_ insight to the mechanisms of this terrible disease,” Starscream continued subtly. 

“Yes, well, that would be the point of _our_ research,” Knock Out huffed in annoyance as he leaned back against the exam table his conjux was sat upon and crossed his arms. 

“Yes, of course,” Starscream said with a twirl of his servo. He maintained focus on First Aid, however. “I _do_ hope, however, that it’s not seen as speaking out of turn for me to suggest that with this research for me, you will soon be remembered as one of the _examples_ of the medical field to all Cybertronians everywhere.”

Once more, First Aid stopped his research, his fingers tapping the side of his desk rhythmically as if waiting for some other shoe to drop. 

"And, of course, if the _consistent detours_ of the Lost Light’s supposedly sacred mission feel far less appealing to you once we have worked together to solve the mysteries of this disease, First Aid, I would be _more_ than pleased to accept any application for a position here on Cybertron, where your star could only shine brighter,” Starscream continued casually. 

Venting, First Aid crossed his arms. “Lord Starscream, may I speak?” he asked flatly. 

“But of course–”

“I am very much aware that you are interested in the weaponized properties of this horrific disease,” he snapped. “I don’t know what _for_ , and to be frank, I don’t _care._ So it actually gives me a lot of pleasure to inform you that all research is currently indicating that there is no _control_ of this disease’s mechanisms. There doesn’t seem to be a _reason_ for who it does and does not choose to affect. And, if I were a betting bot, I would put shanix on the thought that these cultists had been knowingly infected with the disease as well. Which would explain why none of them used their t-cog in the battle against Prime.” 

Immediately ruffled, Starscream slammed his servos down on First Aid’s desk and leaned over him, looming. “You should learn to silence that vocalizer, _Doctor._ I could imagine that for such _outrageous_ and _unfounded_ accusations, less benevolent rulers than I would have it silenced _for_ you.”

First Aid did flinch at the noise but he didn’t back down, not entirely. He stared expectantly at Starscream.

“I should return to my work,” he said lowly at last.

“Do that,” Starscream sneered before backing away and turning back for the door. 

As he passed Knock Out and Breakdown, a thought crossed Starscream’s processor and he paused in front of them, earning raised helms from them both. 

“Delegate,” Starscream addressed Knock Out directly. 

“Lord Starscream,” Knock Out drawled somewhat sarcastically.

“I’m certain that there are certain issues in _your_ personal affairs that you would like to see addressed with some powerful persuasion on your side,” Starsceam said cryptically, glancing over toward Breakdown and back to Knock Out. 

Knock Out’s smarmy expression dropped momentarily and he readjusted his stance. “I suppose you are curious about the progress of my affairs, and my _work_ as it pertains to my delegate responsibilities.”

"Of course,” Starsceam said easily. “I’m certain you will come to me if there is _anything_ at all I can help with.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Knock Out replied, leaning back again. 

Satisfied with the response, Starscream headed back toward the door with a cocky smirk. He didn’t even bother looking over when he could sense Bumblebee’s limp to his side. 

 _Right. Double dealing never goes wrong,_ Bumblebee murmured. _Especially not for you._

“It’s gotten me here, hasn’t it?” Starscream all but whispered as he walked through the doors and almost _immediately_ ran into a racing rat of a beastformer. “ _Rattrap!_ I told you to watch my office!” 

“I was, Lord Starscream!” the rat announced, transforming to his botmode and standing by Starscream’s side. “I was! But we started to get hailed from the Lost Light.”

Genuinely surprised, Starscream started walking forward. “They’re actually answering for me? No. I don’t believe it. Not even the least bit.” He waited for a beat before glancing down toward Rattrap. “ _Who_ exactly is contacting us.”

“ _That_ would be the weird part,” Rattrap explained. “It wasn’t the Command frequency, and checking the records it wasn’t the crew’s social line either. It’s just _a_ signal _from_ the Lost Light. Not official. And it’s refusing to activate for anyone whose not a match for you.”

Starscream scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense–” 

He came to a stop, remembering his first talks with Error, with the proposal of having spies upon the Lost Light itself doing whatever Error’s bidding was. The original plan, the plan Starscream _thought_ would be only a boon to his administration. 

“Rattrap,” Starsceam ordered, crossing his arms behind his back. “I am going to need to switch positions with you – make sure _no one_ comes into my office until I am done seeing to this matter myself.”

Rattrap looked shiftily around. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I am,” Starscream said, continuing toward his office. “I know exactly what I am doing.”

Bumblebee stewed by his side. _At least one of us thinks so…_


	7. 2.2 The Away Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I fear they will just be getting a little more common as my classes carry on into the semester. All the same, I really appreciate all the kindness and support from each and every one of you. It’s definitely made a difference for me and my apprehensions about publishing this huge project of mine. 
> 
> And special thanks to brokenEisenglas, ScribeProtra, Isame, and @secretlystephaniebrown for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part II: The Fire Down Below  
Chapter 2.1: The Away Team**

The primary scans of Eukaris made it clear that the colony planet was positively _gorgeous_  by organic standards. Which Rodimus felt he had a decent position for assessing considering how many various organic planets he had found himself on before captaining the Lost Light. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for, Captain?” the crew member asked, a little too timid to have been one of the original Lost Lighters. 

“Just the coordinates I gave you, I’d like to get a good idea of what we’re walking into before taking ships down,” Rodimus replied. 

He watched the screen carefully, optics narrowing their gaze as he noticed that there were some trails worn down – something he might not have known to look for if he hadn’t seen for himself how Earth’s organic plants and malleable ground hadn’t proven to bend and move in such ways. 

“Rodimus,” Megatron’s voice carried from the other side of the bridge as the door opened. There was the vocal annoyance Rodimus had come to expect, still rather strong. It was a relief, really, since lately Megatron’s voice had taken a tenor of more being _mystified_ with Rodimus than _annoyed._

Annoyed was so much more fun. 

“Hold up, Megs, I’m trying to figure out who’s been around the landing sight,” Rodimus said, waving him off without a moment’s hesitation. “If there’s locals nearby – colonist or not – there’s probably a chance they’ll take a whole bunch of transports landing as not so peacefully. Plus they apparently have had issues with Cybertronians in the past. Did you hear about the whole Combiner thing we missed while… huh. Hard to tell what we were doing at the time. Probably something epic–”

“ _Rodimus,”_ Megatron hissed, continuing the trend of annoyance. 

The red and yellow speedster turned enough to tilt his helm at Megatron. “What?”

“I need to speak with you about this mission you are commanding,” Megatron snapped. “The one you are commanding _mostly_ without input from the rest of this ship’s command structure.”

“I’ve talked to Magnus,” Rodimus shrugged only to be poked in the chest by the other captain.

“You have discussed _nothing_ with me since we left Cybertron,” Megatron snapped. “That stops here and now. As captain of this ship–”

“ _Co-_ captain,” Rodimus grouched right back. “You always forget that it’s a _co-_ captaincy when you’re pissed or trying to make a point. Something you happen to _always be_ when you’re not taking a turn moping.”

The other mech’s red optics narrowed. “Rodimus.”

“Sorry, _taking stock,”_ he backtracked with a cycle of his optics. “Anyway, I need to go _brief_ the away team I’ve got together for this thing. If you want, for old time’s sake, you can run mission control with Ultra Magnus up here. I mean, odds are I won’t listen since it’s not exactly like we’re running any serious plays while we’re down thee, but–”

“Stop running your vocalizer for _ten seconds!”_ Megatron snapped in aggravation. “You’re overdoing your usual nonsense and I can _see_ when you aren’t as committed to playing the fool as you think you are.”

“Shows what you know,” Rodimus snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m _way_ more dedicated to playing the fool than the average bot.”

Snapping his jaws shut, Megatron resorted to leering at Rodimus in complete irritation rather than continuing their verbal sparring.

Running out of material to distract with, Rodimus dropped his spoilers and leaned his head back with an aggravated noise from his throat. “Okay, _fine._ What are you trying to say? Just make it _quick._ I’m serious about needing to brief everybot before we get down there.”

“ _That,”_ Megatron said pointedly. “You are making large, sweeping decisions about crew management without consulting me whatsoever. That is _not_ how the command structure works. I know for a _fact_ that you spent the past four million years understanding how command structure was supposed to work.”

Unable to help himself, Rodimus let out a strained laugh. “Yeesh, Megs, how little do you know about me _still?_ Knowing how it was supposed to work and actually _obeying_ command structure are radically different things. And I definitely did one more than the other. Just ask Magnus how we met on Earth, it was a hoot.”

“Do _not_ make a mockery of my concerns as captain, you infuriating little mech,” Megatron warned. 

“There you go, doing it again,” Rodimus trailed off with a shake of his head.

“Why are you refusing to have so much as a _conversation_ with me?” Megatron demanded. “We were past this. And we were past you exploiting my… _history_ to win arguments. Since Cybertron, though–”

Finally losing his patience for his feigned cool and collective attitude, Rodimus scowled at Megatron and stepped closer to him. “Since _before_ Cybertron, Megs. Primus, are you paying attention at _all?”_ he growled. When the larger mech only tilted his head, Rodimus threw up both arms. “We had a _mutiny,_ Mister Co-Captain. The majority of our crew stood by the decision to oust our command. They didn’t trust us. Yeah, a lot of it was mechs being unhappy with you and my attitude toward being downgraded from _captain_ to _co-captain_ didn’t help that, but… the plans were in motion _before_ the final roster of the ship. And even with the evidence shoved in my face – in an _alphabetized list,_ no less – I didn’t once see it coming. So no, right now, making decisions for this crew I’m not letting you have a word in edgewise because…” He deflated, spoilers and shoulders dropping. “This ship needs at least _one_ captain not blamed for every stupid, scrap decision made. For taking the risks and going on the side quests that might _seem_ distracting, but every now and then can stop Tyrest from committing genocide on ever Constructed Cold mech in the cosmos.” He looked seriously toward the stunned silent Megatron. “I need you to be the responsible one, alright? And if this mission doesn’t go well, if I come back from that stupid rock without anything to show for it, you need to make your disappointment loud and your punishment of using up resources _real._ Because that’s the only way things are going to work out any different on this redo.”

For a moment, Megatron was utterly perplexed, his optics wide and his helm tilted back. 

When his vocalizer seemed to crackle back online, he shook his head. “You can’t honestly be doing something so–”

“Responsible? Noble?” Rodimus asked, putting a servo to his chin.

“ _Ridiculous_ and _poorly executed,”_ Megatron corrected, though his tones were far from harsh or condemning. “And you _truly_ could not have thought you could do it without telling anyone. Without informing _me_ that that’s what you were trying to do here.”

“What? Of course I had to keep it secret,” Rodimus said with a simple wave of his servo. “Ultra Magnus would’ve objected with everything in him. Plus his acting abilities? _Not_ the greatest.”

“You don’t think I would object?” Megatron asked, sound truly curious.

Cycling his optics, Rodimus rolled his head back. “Of course not. You _love_ long plays. _And_ this has you coming out on top. The only thing you _wouldn’t_ like about this plan is that you weren’t the one who came up with it. Which you’re probably kicking yourself for.”

Megatron glared at him. “Don’t pretend to have me figured out, Rodimus. You’ll always find yourself gravely misled.”

“Fine, whatever,” he replied with a shrug as he started back toward the bridge door. Then, a little louder in case any of the crew was listening, he returned to his usual tenor. “I’m still going to Eukaris with the away team, Megs. If you wanna be useful, you could always go to the captain’s office. I think all my multicolored highlighters are unused.”

He didn’t look back to see that perplexed and annoyed look his co-captain was no doubt giving him, but a part of Rodimus still wanted to.

His new approach to co-captaincy was a lot more work on his processor, and even _more_ than that thanks to the effort of acting as if it wasn’t new at all. 

But it had to be worth it. It _had_ to be because, for perhaps the first time since the Lost Light first took off under his command, Rodimus felt he had a true vision of what was to come for him and his crew. 

There was no explosion taking them off course from the start. There was no petty feud with Thunderclash so long as he was among their numbers (and out of Rodimus’ sights, in all honesty). 

Rodimus _had_ this. 

And to further  ensure he was starting things off on the right pede, he had used Magnus’ write ups on their new crewmates to pick out an away team of several different cliques with only Brainstorm from Rodimus’ own ‘Rod Squad.’ 

After all, cliques _were_ a bit of a problem on the ship. 

Without any co-captains to continue distracting him, Rodimus made his way through the front of the Lost Light with ease after switching to his alt mode. He only _somewhat_ caused a hazard as he dashed along, nearly knocking over a few unexpecting crew along the way.

If they weren’t used to such things on the Lost Light, odds were they were among the new recruits which just meant they’d have to get used to it and Rodimus, performing his co-captainly duty, was aiding in that process. 

He reached the ship bay in what was nowhere _near_ record time, but he assured himself there was nothing wrong with respectable tardiness considering just how busy one could get commanding a ship. He was _certain_ that his assembled away team would understand.

What he wasn’t sure of was if Drift and Ratchet would understand. Considering they weren’t on his list. 

Cycling his optics a few times to make sure he was seeing things correctly, Rodimus transformed and moved easily before the assembled and eager crew… and Drift and Ratchet, who had Brainstorm hovering near them with whatever gadgetry he had invented in the past twenty seconds.

“Here to see us off?” Rodimus asked hopefully.

“Here to check your processor,” Ratchet harumphed, crossing his arms and shaking his helm a few times. 

Drift neared Rodimus, concern written all over his faceplate. “We heard you were going with these mechs onto Eukaris… with _no one_ from the usual crew.”

“Hey,” Rodimus said defensively before throwing his servos in Brainstorm’s direction. “Brainstorm is, like, _right_ there, guys. Don’t be rude.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t going to mention the offense, but now that it’s been brought up to everyone’s attention…” Brainstorm said cheekily, waving his new invention around in what Rodimus was _certain_ was an unsafe way.

“You’re making a disaster for yourself to stumble into,” Ratchet warned snappishly. 

“Demonstrable and fiendish lie,” Rodimus defended in a huff. “I am building myself some bridges. Obviously you wouldn’t recognize it. It’s part of a very secretive strategy I have.”

Taking a more casual approach, Drift stepped up and placed a firm hand on Rodimus’ shoulder. It worked in almost immediately making the defensive speedster relax under the hold. “I’m sure what you’re doing is something you have felt guided to do,” Drift said gently. “And I’m certain, like always, that it’ll end up being exactly what is needed of you. _But_ I am not comfortable with learning – _secondhand_ – that you’re taking an entire away team off ship without anyone familiar as backup.”

“Again,” Brainstorm perked up, “Offense.”

Rodimus looked slyly between the main two objectors before venting heavily and beginning to use his fingers to count down the points in his logic. “Eukaris is a colony planet that is not wild about native Cybertronians and it might be seen as an _uh-oh_ if an entire fleet of former Cybertronian warriors landed on a holy site and started acting up, _not that this crew has a habit of acting up and causing chaos or anything._ There are mostly beastformers on this planet, and a lot of our additional recruits are beastformers or colonists from other planets which would make this more easy to navigate if the natives get restless. We also need to keep the away team small so it’s not imposing. Also, considering we’ve already gone through one, _arguably_ two, mutinies in the past cycle I think it’s a good idea for me to start showing a friendly face to people outside the _quote-unquote usual crew.”_

Drift looked at him curiously for a moment, as if attempting to assess the validity of the remarks. Which, considering how not so long ago Rodimus could have been completely invalid without a pause from his best friend still managed to sting quite a bit.

Ratchet was absolved of such subtleties. “And what exactly does _Brainstorm_ factor into any of that?”

“Beyond my incomparable genius?” Brainstorm asked loftily.

“And his unique position to get to tell me a bunch of dirt on Perceptor since they’re hold up in the lab together at all times?” Rodimus added.

“Yes, well, that, too,” Brainstorm waved off without hesitation.

For a moment, Drift and Ratchet seemed without further objection, but Rodimus’ fellow speedster brashly stepped forward all the same. “Take Ratchet and me with your away team,” Drift demanded. “I trust you, Rodimus. I believe this is all well intentioned and will no doubt work out excellently–”

“Have you completely forgotten how the Lost Light works? Don’t say poetically ironic things,” Brainstorm moaned, hitting the palm of his servo against his helm. “Now I’m sure we’re all doomed.”

“But you need more people who will be at your side,” Drift continued.

Rodimus stared at him then back to Ratchet who was giving the back of Drift’s head a similar glare.

“And me?” Ratchet gruffed.

Without looking away from Rodimus, Drift amended, “You need more people who will be at your side _and Ratchet.”_

Squinting, Rodimus hummed, unconvinced. “Can I trade him out for Velocity?”

“I’d be for that,” Brainstorm spoke up cheerily. 

“Rodimus,” Drift said, squeezing Rodimus’ shoulder slightly, trying to convey the sort of seriousness that Rodimus had spent the majority of his life avoiding. 

“Look,” Rodimus sighed, caving, “I’m about to brief everybody on what we’re doing down there. I’ve got two sites I’m interested in looking at and was going to split them up anyway. If you and Ratchet can be the leaders of Team B, I’d appreciate it.”

“Consider it done,” Drift said with a nod while Ratchet sighed, resigned to being pulled along on another adventure by Drift.

“I would’ve preferred being the Team B-for-Brainstorm leader,” Brainstorm sighed.

“C’mon,” Rodimus waved the jet over. “Let them have Team B fun. We’re going to the more interesting site as Team A anyway. Show them for crashing one of my away team parties. And also get us away from those two – the smell of fresh paint’s still in this room and I don’t know how much of a reminder that they got new upgrades I can stand!”

That cheered Brainstorm up and, in all honesty, having Drift and Ratchet along had cheered Rodimus some up as well. Though, of course, he’d be loathed to admit it to them.

Things were finally working out smoothly.

* * *

At one time, had he been asked what made him certain of the convictions in his beliefs – certain enough to persist and to fight in millions of year of conflict – Optimus Prime would have stood firm and proclaimed it was the strength he drew from the support of friends standing by him and his decisions. 

With Cybertron’s unsteady peace so fresh, so _new_  still, Optimus could have never imagined a day where it felt as though that support was so meager as to not exist at all. 

It had been long since he lost whatever feeble argument there had been between himself and Rodimus about the decision of leaving with the Lost Light and yet it was still heavy on Optimus’ mind. 

The wonder and awe of the mech who had willingly handed back the mech had left Rodimus’ spark seemingly some time ago and yet Optimus truly could not imagine when it had been. 

He had told Ratchet that he surrounded himself not with believers but with friends, the bots and mechs who believed and followed _Optimus_ or _Orion Pax,_ not the Primacy. The sorts of bots who would have fought for their convictions if it had meant standing against a Prime. And Rodimus had never truly been an exception to that rule, but he had been _different._

It was not the Primacy that Rodimus had followed maybe, but it was still _Optimus Prime_ who he seemed beholden to above any other. And it was Rodimus at Nyon and his ability to both stand against the enforcer Orion Pax and show Optimus Prime the truth of the Matrix that had started a new era in fighting their war. 

And it was Rodimus who made the Matrix tug at Optimus’ spark like it truly _meant_ something. 

On reflection, Optimus found what Rodimus had said about the Matrix to be very profound, the sort of profundity he had not shared with many others outside of his closest of confidantes. 

_You know how, one time in every million, your transformation cog just_ sings _and changing shape feels as_ natural _as… as putting one foot in front of the other?_ That’s _how it felt._

Remembering Rodimus’ words and the joyous excitement he took in them as he told Optimus of his bonding with the Matrix made the Prime reach subconsciously toward his own spark chamber. 

It wasn’t _merely_ the difference in their experiences with bonding to the Matrix that was off putting anymore. It was that Optimus had a difficult time remembering _any_ time in the past millennia that he had been able to speak of _anything_ with such joy. 

But even still, Optimus recognized passion. It was _passion_ and not joy that Rodimus had spoken against him with in their heated transmission. 

And likewise it was passion that Optimus still felt when holding to what _he_ knew he must do. 

Gathering himself once more, Optimus reached for his ship’s communicator to activate its long range signal and redirect it toward his unit on Earth. 

The calibrations took longer without Jetfire’s expertise, but he had left to speak with Wheeljack and others in the science division and Optimus did not feel right dragging his ally from whatever his plans were in order to do such a menial task. And even without him, soon enough Optimus was transmitting to his Autobots lightyears away. 

While it took some patience, eventually Arcee’s hologram appeared before him. 

“Sir,” she said firmly. 

“Arcee, I trust Earth is well,” Optimus wasted no time. 

She took a moment to tilt her head at him but answered expectantly. “Tensions are about the same as they were when you left, Prime, but we have kept well to the mission. Specifically Jazz, Kup, and Aileron have been working nonstop on the goodwill portions. Sideswipe, Sky Lynx, and I have been dealing with remaining Decepticon and Earth Defense Command when they become an issue. Cosmos has been in constant surveillance. Thundercracker, for whatever it’s worse, has maintained some sort of liason status with his former human handlers. Whether or not that becomes useful in the future is more in the air.”

"Friends,” he corrected lightly.

Arcee did the tilt of her head once more. “Excuse me?”

“I believe Thundercracker thought of the humans as allies and friends, and from their reactions to him compared to the rest of us, I believe there may be mutuality to the sentiment,” Optimus explained.

“Sure,” she responded slowly, still not impressed with sentimentality it seemed. “The point being, we’re holding here until you get back, Prime, but with everything that’s happened both on Cybertron and here on Earth, I suppose we’re hoping to hear good news on at least one front soon.”

“It is my intention to return once everything has settled here,” Optimus assured her. “And should things become dire or the situation to change drastically, I am a spacebridge away.”

“More like a _Starscream’s Whim_ away, Sir,” she reminded him. “But regardless, I’m going to keep watch here as much as possible.”

“And you have my gratitude for that, Arcee, more than I could ever repay,” he replied. “Over and out.”

“Over and out,” she repeated just as the transmission ended. 

Venting, Optimus brought a servo to his chin and thought long and hard about the next move he had to make when he felt _something_ seemingly shift within his own spark. 

Perplexed, he glanced toward his chassis before turning toward the door of his ship and finding the familiar form of Windblade standing nearby. 

It was assuring to see a friend rather than a foe, but not _that_ much more assuring. She should not have been able to get so far in their ship without either Jetfire escorting her in or somehow else alerting Optimus to her presence. 

“Windblade,” Optimus said, turning completely and taking steps toward her. “How did you get here?”

She visibly hesitated before answering, still keeping the distance between them. “Sorry, Sir, I just came on board. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Optimus processed Windblade calling him _Sir_ for a moment, somewhat confused about where the formality came from before ultimately deciding that it wasn’t the most important part of the conversation, even if it _was_ odd. 

“I find that unlikely,” he said simply. “I was aware that you have been attempting to covertly watch Starscream, but I am not so certain I enjoy being placed under the same scrutiny.”

“What?” she asked uneasily before snapping her fingers together. “Oh! Yes. Okay. Sorry, you’re right. You caught me. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

The conversation was beginning to feel so off putting, Optimus wasn’t even certain what to do with it anymore. He took another step forward and noticed the way Windblade withdrew, and how new ornamentation that Optimus had never seen her wearing before moved and clinked against her metal as she did so. 

“Windblade?” he asked, questioningly. “What exactly is happening here?”

“A _lot_ is happening, actually,” Windblade said, vocalizer seemingly rushing through her words. “A _lot_ a lot. And most of it is difficult to really explain at _this_ moment. So I’m hoping that my word can account for something.”

Suspicious, Optimus narrowed his optics. “Of course it does, Windblade. But I can only deliver my answer once I understand the situation at hand.”

“I understand that,” Windblade sighed. “And I have… _plenty_ of information. Jut that most of it I can’t share.” Her blue optics turned toward him, full of meaning. “So _please_  trust me when I say that you _must_ stay on Cybertron for the time being, Optimus Prime. We are going to need you.”

A beat of silence passed between them and Optimus felt the uncomfortable shift as he stood by. 

There was so much more going on than he was able to conceive at that moment. But he didn’t now _what._

"I know you can feel it, that something isn’t right here,” she continued, quickly as if the sooner her words were out the more impact they would have. “I know you can feel that, so I’m just asking you to trust your instinct, to trust the pull of the Matrix.”

Convinced something was wrong by that statement, Optimus straightened up further. “How do you know there is a _pull_ to me or the Matrix, Windblade? What is going on here _exactly?”_ he demanded darkly.

“Please, Optimus, trust me,” she said, turning and heading off the ship as quickly as she had came. 

“That is not how trust works, Windblade, now answer me in any way you can,” he ordered, following her off the ship in a hurry. But what Optimus found outside was nothing – he was all but so clearly alone on the docking bay. 

For good measure, Optimus looked to the skies in case Windblade had taken off in her altmode but found nothing. 

Annoyed and deeply disturbed, Optimus brought a hand up to his audial and sought out Jetfire’s frequency. 

“Optimus, Sir!” the scientist responded almost immediately. “I’m still with Wheeljack and the delegates at the moment, is there something you need?”

“Yes,” Optimus began, ready to question Jetfire about giving out security clearances, even to their allies and friends, when the jet’s words caught up with him. The Prime remained quiet a moment too long as he tried to make sense of the information.

“Sir?” Jetfire tried again.

“What delegates are with you right now, Jetfire?” Optimus demanded.

“The Camiens – Chromia and Windblade,” Jetfire answered.

Optimus scowled at the skies ahead. “Jetfire,” he said lowly, “tell Wheeljack and anyone else with authority at the capital that we need to begin an alarm. There is someone impersonating delegate Windblade and they somehow have gained access to security clearances even she does not have yet.”

“That’s…” Jetfire trailed off. “Nevermind. Of course, Optimus. We’ll be right on that – do you need someone to come to the shipyard and help you cover?”

“No, Jetfire, that will not be necessary,” he said, shifting to altmode. “I am coming to you.”

* * *

It was bizarre to Drift to have so many unfamiliar faces and auras surrounding him. There was still that noticeable difference between EM Fields of various Cybertronians and Cybertronian descendants which he had only _just_ started to untangle and identify when they were back at Cybertron. 

A part of him knew that it wasn’t that much different than if Rodimus _had_ devised the teams of former Lost Light crewmates. Not after the harsh departure Drift had received from the ship seemingly so long ago. 

Traveling through the comparative wilderness of Eukaris, Drift tried to take comfort in at least two evident truths: that thick smell of fresh paint they had been overwhelmed by on the ship down had disappeared when Rodimus divided up their teams, and their captain had made the executive decision after making the division to put _Drift_ in charge of the second team rather than Ratchet. 

The second fact, in particular, seemed to have really done a number on Ratchet’s mood. 

“You voluntarily step down as Chief Medical Officer and _suddenly_ you’re last millennia’s model!” Ratchet snarled, to Drift’s eternal amusement.

“We’re very fortunate to have you on our team, Sir,” a younger bot spoke up – a beastformer moving a little too comfortably through the brush. 

“Didn’t you just hear that I stepped down from CMO? I don’t have any power to suck up to,” Ratchet warned the newbie and shook his helm. 

Looking over his shoulder toward Ratchet, Drift offered a somewhat smug smirk. “It wasn’t anything to do with confidence in you, Ratchet, it was just that I fit the part of expertise on this particular mission,” he assured the older mech. 

“How so?” Ratchet pressed.

Putting a servo over his spark chamber, Drift smiled and kept his chin high. “Because Rodimus trusted that, of our team, I would be capable of recognizing the signs of Primus at this holy Primal site we are seeking out.”

As expected, when Drift cycled his optics and looked to Ratchet again, he found a disgusted scowl. 

“Forget it,” Ratchet huffed. “I’ve lost my disappointment in being overlooked.”

“I thought you might,” Drift said. He then looked to the vocal beastformer who seemed to be some sort of animal form that was larger than a Turbofox. “You seem to be traveling the terrain rather confidently, I imagine you must be from this colony. Can you give us any insight about what we’re walking into? Or what to avoid to not disturb your fellow colonists.”

The beastformer’s nose curled in a snarl. “Maybe not grouping us all together? I sure as Pit am not like those feathery flyers _or_ those submersible water breathers.”

Drift tilted his helm in surprise then turned to Ratchet who shared a similar expression. 

“I’m taking it not everyone gets along on Eukaris then,” Ratchet deadpanned. 

“There are alliances between tribes, and we all converge and listen to the wisdom of Blackarachnia and the webs,” he replied. “But there are _tribes_ for a reason, of course.”

Somewhat disappointed to see such a familiar attitude on what seemed to be such a luscious and rich planet, Drift rested a hand on the hilt of his swords and looked in the distance. He supposed, given their Cybertronian origins, the colonies truly couldn’t have hoped to diverge to far from their source spark. Even when said source had spent the past four million years attempting to undo the rigid divisions and class structure that had nearly sent it into stagnant ruin. 

“So what you’re telling me is that if this party happens to run into a tribe that takes issue with some member of a different tribe that’s in our group, we’re as good as scrap?” Ratchet snapped. “What sort of diplomacy was Rodimus thinking of when he set all of this up?”

The beastformer cycled his optics then tilted his head. “Wait… You think this whole group is made up of Eukaians? Not even close – the colors on these guys… they’d stick out like a sore thumb out here! Most of them have _paint_ jobs.” He squinted his optics at them. “What? Do us Beastformers just look all the same to you or something?”

Taken aback, Drift raised his hands up apologetically. “That wasn’t what was meant, I assure you. As leaders of this search party, we just want to be aware of our assets. So thank you for all the insight you’ve provided for us. We’re _most_ grateful for it.”

Unimpressed, the beastformer vented then dropped back to the rest of the group. 

“This is not going well,” Drift sighed, dropping his hands in aggravation. 

“What was your first clue?” Ratchet snorted. “This is typical Rodimus. Makes big, sweeping moves to assert his leadership, then doesn’t bother to follow all the way through and put the necessary thought behind it. _Typical.”_

Frowning, Drift turned on Ratchet. “I don’t think that’s remotely true, Ratchet,” he said gravely. “Especially not this time around. Rodimus has taken up the mantle of leadership very seriously, and even more than that I know he’s been reading over Ultra Magnus’ files backwards and forward since the mishap on Cybertron. He might not want it to _seem_ like he’s trying because he mistakes comfort with leadership with an _effortlessness_ in leadership, but he is. I’ve seen him with my own optics.”

"Right,” Ratchet replied dryly, sounding wholly unimpressed. “Where are these mysterious relics or artifacts _or whatever_ nonsense supposed to be anyway? Or is sending us on a wild turbofox chase a part of Rodimus’ great plans, too?”

While some instinctive protectiveness raised itself from his spark, Drift suppressed it in order to check their coordinates for himself. They _had_ been split up for quite a while with little to show for it. 

But doing so proved to be only more confounding. 

“My internal sensors must be acting up,” Drift uttered, looking around with a disquieted look. “They’re telling me we’re on the set path, but if that were the case than there should be some sort of ruins or monuments here.” 

Ratchet seemed to wait on Drift to come to a different conclusion on his own, but ultimately sighed. “Okay, well, let’s think about this for what it is. The colonists and their Titan would have settled on this planet _millennia_ before the War even started. We’re talking about artifacts and structures older than me here. And, given the organic makeup we’ve seen of most of this planet, they probably haven’t aged the best either. We’ll need to look _harder_ if there’s even anything to find.”

Drift nodded, offering a small yet appreciative smile to his dear friend. “Thank you, good points,” he said before turning to face the small group of six following them. For good measure, Drift raised his arms and got the others’ attentions. “We should be coming up on a site of particular importance – one made by the ancestors of our colonist brothers and sisters. With such an ancient and holy task, we need to proceed with caution and respect. We can fan out – groups of two – and search the terrain for anything of interest and radio to each other on the common frequency once something’s found.”

When everyone seemed to nod in agreement, Drift lowered his hands. “Alright, pair up and move out.”

Looking to Ratchet, Drift caught the older mech shaking his helm. “And here you pretend to know nothing about leadership.”

“I know things,” Drift conceded. “But I know enough to be able to securely say that I’m best in an advisory position. Real leaders… they’re a rarer sort. I’ve been fortunate enough to see so many with so much to teach.”

The doctor cycled his optics. “Alright, ease up. There’s no one’s aft around to kiss.”

Drift nearly had his comeback ready for the remark when he noticed the ping of an incoming long distant transmission. And, given the way he perked up at the same time, Ratchet seemed to be on the receiving end of one, too. 

Answering the ping, Drift shifted to a more reserved disposition. “This is Drift.”

“This is the Lost Light,” Ultra Magnus’ unmistakable voice said rapidly. “What is your current status? How quickly can you move to the coordinates we’re sending you now?”

Confused, Drift glanced to the coordinates available on his HUD before focusing on Magnus’ voice once more. “We’re currently progressing on our search for the Primal artifacts here on Eukaris–”

“They’re all functional,” Ultra Magnus said to someone not on the frequency. “How long will it take for you to reach the coordinates?”

“In altmode – given we just cleared a huge path – maybe fifteen minutes,” Drift answered. “Ultra Magnus, what’s going on? Why can’t you have Rodimus’ team check it out? They should be much closer–”

“Drift, those _are_ Rodimus’ coordinates,” Magnus said. “They’ve been attacked and we lost contact.”

Without another word, Drift transformed and opened up the common frequency. “Everyone to me!” he ordered. 

His spark, normally so controlled and centered, began to pulse erratically. 

All Drift could think was that he should have _known_ something would be wrong. He should have allowed himself to feel the warnings.

But he didn’t, and now it seemed Rodimus was in trouble for it. 

 


	8. 2.3 The Pawns Grow Restless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait! But I am in the full swing of school again so rather unfortunately updates may continue to be a little spotty until I get on break again. This was also a difficult chapter to write since I was trying some perspectives I’m not nearly as familiar with as I have been with others! Namely Brainstorm, whose part was originally Skids’ – and while I maintain that this is an AU and that Skids’ survival is part of that AU since I hadn’t predicted his death in Dying of the Light, ultimately I felt like this particular role needed to go more to Brainstorm for a number of reasons that will hopefully become more apparent as the story progresses. 
> 
> Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, @boundlessfields, Isame, Deezaster82 for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part II: The Fire Down Below  
Chapter 2.3: The Pawns Grow Restless**

The way Rattrap preferred to look at things was less that there were _sides_ or _fractions_ on Cybertron – though, there most certainly _were_  – so much as there was a tight rope to balance. One, perhaps, that so many others – especially his former fellow Autobots – would not fully appreciate. But it was never like Rattrap was actively participating in the popularity contest. 

After all, it was pretty hard to be a _rat_ and the height of faith from other mechs.

It did make it somewhat easier to be overlooked, however, and Rattrap was eternally, regretfully overlooked by others for better or for worse. And it did make the fact that his eyes and ears were _everywhere_ in a much less overt way than the likes of Starscream and Windblade and the ever intimidating Carcer delegates. 

And _who_ he shared such information with and _when_ was a board game that the beastformer seemed to be playing entirely with himself. 

For the moment, first on his list was Lord Starscream. 

Ever since the hail from the departed Lost Light, Starscream had held up mostly in his own chambers and left more of the daily running of Cybertron and Metroplex to Rattrap’s eternally under appreciated self. There was _something_ he wasn’t quite sharing about it all but Rattrap would be scrapped if he could even hazard a guess as to why.

So, of course, he had hazarded a _few_ just for the point of it.

But it also meant that Stascream as even further removed from the general atmosphere of his city than he usually was, and it was up to Rattrap to keep him informed of things like the growing unrest and displeasure after the outbreak which Starscream seemingly had little to do with solving.

In other word, Cybertron was up in arms and rioting _again_ that week. 

Stascream could have likely deduced that without Rattrap’s intel, which was why Rattrap made a point of arriving to the Chosen One’s chambers with something additional.

“Lord Starscream?” Rattrap called out, opening the door. “You still in here?”

The Seeker was standing in an awkward position by his balcony, looking seemingly at nothing with his hands animatedly gesturing. But the moment Rattrap called out, Starscream crossed his arms behind his back and turned out toward the balcony like he had been staring out onto Metroplex the entire time. 

“Where else would I be, Rattrap?” he snapped irritably. 

“I dunno, literally almost anywhere.” Rattrap couldn’t help but to smart off as he continued entering into the room. “I’ve got some important news, Lord Starscream. I think you’ll be mighty interested in hearing it!”

“Somehow I doubt that seriously,” Starscream said before waving a servo almost casually. He still hadn’t even bothered to turn around and face Rattrap entirely. “Alright then, what is it?”

“I think everyone out there is _very_ upset over the scare with the outbreak still, and as long as the Prime’s here as the guy everyone saw save them, it’s gonna make you look bad,” Rattrap started, trying and failing to not take it to heart when Starscream released a long and aggravated sigh at the suggestion. 

“I knew better than to get my hopes up for something _actually_ interesting,” Starscream muttered. He finally turned and looked at Rattrap with a certain malaise to his optics. “Is that the preamble or did you _actually_ not bother to get me new information out there?”

“I’m just setting the tone,” Rattrap said as respectfully as he could manage. “Everyone’s upset and going to _keep_ being upset when you’ve got someone as charismatic and as, well, _arguably_ seen as a leader still as Optimus Prime walking around. Which he’s apparently gonna keep doing since I just got word that he’s not just deciding against leaving back for Earth soon, but is storming here declaring we need a lockdown and not giving me any reason why.”

“What!?” Starscream barked out, turning sharply on his pedes to face Rattrap entirely. “He can’t do that! _I’m_ in charge of Cybertron! Not him!”

“We know, we know!” Rattrap assured him. “No one’s taking to the order yet or anything. But if you want us to, I can initiate it. We just need your permission–”

Starscream let out a frustrated growl. “Of _course_ I don’t want you to lock up my facilities without so much as a _whisper_ as to why!” He stopped his stalking toward Rattrap and glanced back over his shoulder again into the nothing. His arms crossed over his chest and he scowled in a way that was more than a little unnerving for Rattrap to witness. “Of _course_ I know even Prime’s dramatics aren’t likely to span from nothing! But as a leader I’m not going to just make sch an uncalled for move due to _nothing_ but Prime’s orders. That isn’t how these things work.”

Confused but more than a little cautious about bringing the ever increasingly strange behavior up to Starscream directly, Rattrap rubbed at his shoulder awkwardly. “Right, sure thing.”

Somewhat alarmed by Rattrap’s voice, Starscream turned his red glare onto the beastformer. It was like he’d completely forgotten that the beastformer was even there. “You’re still here? I thought your next move should be _obvious_ without me constantly walking you through everything, Rattrap!”

“Maybe I just don’t have the highly powerful processor for strategy that you do, Lord Starscream,” Rattrap said with a touch of self-depreciation that was beginning to grow irritable even to him.

"Insufferable,” Starscream moaned with a cycle of his optics. He then waved emphatically toward the door. “I might not be taking his word for much of anything, but even I know that Prime’s not likely to make such a noise without reason. Head out there and find out _what_ is making him cause such a stir then get back to me as soon as you can.”

“Sure thing, O’ Chosen One!” Rattrap nodded and waved before transforming and heading right out the door. 

In some respects, he was fortunate that their leader was randomly talking to himself yet again – in _those_ kinds of moods, even the always dubious and strategic Starscream was liable to overlook things that would otherwise cause him to distrust or question Rattrap more. 

Like how the beastformer never mentioned he knew _exactly_ where to go for finding Optimus Prime and all of the other parties involved with the attempt to put the entire capital on lockdown. 

Rattrap navigated the back halls and various spaces of the building on his way to the science facilities under Wheeljack’s watchful optics. If Starscream had been watching the monitors – which, again, due to his current state was probably unlikely – then he probably would not have been capable of keeping up. 

When he emerged on the other side, Rattrap was unsurprised to find Wheeljack and the large, robust Autobot scientist Jetfire in the company of Windblade and Chromia. Really, one of the _least_ shocking developments that could happen on Cybertron anymore was nosey Camien delegates finding their ways into everything.

“Oh, great, the _rat,”_ Chromia snarled, crossing her arms and leering in Rattrap’s direction as he transformed to botmode and made his approach. 

“Oh, great, the bot-sized shield with a poor attitude,” he returned just as snappishly. 

Windblade frowned, her approach to Rattrap had always been more deft than her bodyguard’s. But it also came with the note of inexplicable condescension that Rattrap found to be one of her least appealing qualities. “I can’t help but notice that we’re not in lockdown, Rattrap,” she said disapprovingly. “Optimus said–”

"Eh, no offense, Cityspeaker, but _Optimus Says_ isn’t exactly the most popular game on Cybertron for us nonbeliever types,” he said with a quick wave of his servo. “And before you Camiens start questioning what those _reasons_ are, it begins with about a few million years on a backwash of a planet called Z’verei.”

While the comment was enough to make Windblade’s mouth snap shut, Rattrap didn’t miss the dismissive looks Wheeljack and Jetfire gave each other. As if his fellow veterans who spent the majority of the war palling around with _the_ Optimus Prime’s personal posse could even begin to imagine what the battles were like for the rest of the Cybertronians involved. Hell, even just fellow former Autobots like Rattrap. 

Sometimes his fellow Cybertronians made it _too_ easy to not regret renouncing his allegiances. 

“Regardless of whether or not you have faith, you have served under the Prime’s leadership before,” Chromia spat out in aggravation. “So you _know_ that this call was not made idly.”

“Hey, I don’t know _scrap,_ and what I _do_ know well enough is that _certain_ people would like nothing more than to see this administration burn to the ground-like,” Rattrap argued with a huff. “So how about we start with you all giving me some more to go on here. And then _maybe_ I’ll think about suggesting to Lord Starscream that we go into lockdown.”

“That is a valid suggestion.”

Those words in _that_ booming voice was enough to make Rattrap flinch and turn with the others toward the entrance.

Allegiance to the Autobots or no, it was difficult to not feel that swelling from the spark that Prime’s speeches touched directly. Rattrap kind of hated it.

Optimus Prime entered with gravitas and approached hastily. His optics were determined and stride strong. “While I was using the communication equipment on our ship, I had an unexpected visitor who somehow made it past all of our ship security clearances. Somebot who _should not_ have had such clearance. And furthermore, I have reason to suspect that they were not who they presumed to be.”

Everyone grew quiet and alarmed, all optics on the former and current Autobot leader. It was enough to settle uneasily in Rattrap’s chestplate. 

“It’s a mighty convincing story, Big Bot,” he countered, crossing his arms. “But I’d still like to hear something more concrete here. How you so sure your piece of junk you flew to Earth and back isn’t just faulty? And how can you be so certain-like that this other bot wasn’t who they said they were.”

Optimus’ gaze fell onto Rattrap fora  moment, burning through the rat before shifting to Wheeljack – the closest to a decided neutral among them. “Wheeljack,” he called, “how long would you say you have had Windblade and Chromia in here with you?”

The scientist tilted his head. “Hard to say! Maybe a few hours? Give or take. We’ve been monitoring the spacebridge activity and I was showing Jetfire some of the ropes so that maybe we’d be able to use the technology for your guys on Earth.”

“And this lab is heavily monitored, I assume,” Optimus said, pointing toward a camera in the corner. “The footage recorded?”

“Should be, ever since the mess with Bruticus,” Wheeljack said, rubbing at his neck cables uneasily at the mere memory of it all. 

“There about to be a point to all this gesturing, huh, Prime?” Rattrap demanded, unimpressed. 

“Yes,” Optimus said coldly. “Because it was _Windblade_ that had come onto our ship and circumvented our defense systems. I am certain our ship’s own footage will back that claim up. And while I agree that Starscream has little cause to take my word for what it is alone, even he would be displeased to learn that there is an imposter impersonating high level council members during a time where the city is recovering from a grand crisis. Would you agree, Rattrap?”

Annoyed at being outmaneuvered, Rattrap fussed under a loud vent. 

Meanwhile, Windblade looked positively scandalized. “Me? You saw me? How is that possible? Who would want to impersonate me?”

"It was not you,” Optimus assured her. “At least, it was convincing to a point. The way this bot held themselves… there was a curious difference I have not had time to reflect on fully yet.” 

“The offense for impersonating a delegate, especially in a time of great suspicion and fear like now, can’t be overlooked,” Chromia pointed out angrily, bring a firm servo onto Windblade’s shoulder as the jet continued to look troubled. 

“Agreed,” Optimus said with a nod. 

Rattrap could feel the conversation getting away from him, but either it be the Autobrand still somewhere lurking around his spark or the mere common sense that was everyone’s arguments around him, he was finding himself more and more agreeable to the words. 

“Do you think this has anything to do with that group who released the Rust on the city?” Jetfire asked seriously.

“I do not know if I do or not, Jetfire,” Optimus replied darkly. “However, I would not be surprised if these events are related. And should they be related, that would put anyone in a position of authority in danger given how the last attack played out. Which is why a lockdown is absolutely necessary.” 

Kicking himself internally, Rattrap stepped closer to the group and wrung his servos. “It, uh, might actually have more to do with Starscream than you all think.”

At once, all sets of optics focused on him with unnerving stillness. 

“You, uh, see,” Rattrap continued, “Lord Starscream’s trying to investigate it on the down low himself and what not but… Let’s just say that we have reason to believe there’s someone involved with the Rust to be on that Autobot ship that took off.”

“The Lost Light?” Windblade asked. 

“That’s the one,” Rattrap nodded.

“Why wouldn’t he tell anyone of this!?” Chromia demanded, outraged.

“Because it’s Starscream,” Wheeljack responded sourly.

“We must put that aside for now,” Optimus ordered boomingly. He approached Rattrap, looking down at the beastformer. “Rattrap, we need lockdown and we need to begin open communication with the Lost Light. _Immediately.”_ His optics narrowed. “I am not asking this time.”

Despite himself, Rattrap swallowed and waved his hand in a pathetic salute. “Uh, got it, Big Bot.”

* * *

For someone considered a part of the so-called illustrious _Rod Squad,_ Brainstorm had never spent more individual time with their captain than he had on the away team to Eukaris. 

Had he been anyone else, the dubious honor of the choice might have humbled him or caused some sort of understandable reservation. 

Such things did not necessarily compute with Brainstorm’s processor. 

“What I’m just saying is that an environment as rich and diverse as Eukaris most likely results from some evolutionarily developed high energy. So it would be advantageous for weapons manufacturing if we learned what we could about this hypothetical energy source,” Brainstorm argued. 

Rodimus’ face was set straight ahead, lips pursed in thought. His optics hadn’t so much as slid in Brainstorm’s direction the entire rant. 

“Aren’t we still in peace time?” he finally asked. 

“Which makes it all the more advantageous to jump ahead on that,” Brainstorm said with a wink toward his captain.

“Look, Brainstorm, as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm for your specialty, I have to remind you that you’re not really allowed to make improvements on current weaponry _or_ new weapons altogether unless it’s under Perceptor’s supervision in the laboratory,” Rodimus reminded him. “That was the deal, remember?”

“It’s a hard thing to forget,” Brainstorm acknowledged. 

“So now that I have, once again, gotten this conversation back on track…” Rodimus continued, clearing some brush out of their way. 

“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” Brainstorm said with a vent. “Mostly because last time I said it you said, and I quote, ‘ _this is not something I wanted to hear,’_ unquote. But I’ve been with Perceptor almost every day since the mutiny. And I _definitely_ had been with him every day leading up to it. I’m pretty sure he’s just telling the truth about the whole ordeal.”

Stopping momentarily, Rodimus shot Brainstorm a look. “And the fact that he’s telling the truth about how they all mutinied and – out of the kindness of his spark – Perceptor came back to help us and restore order checks out to you?”

Brainstorm shrugged. “I figured either he realized that it would be a severe loss to be without my intellect adding to the universe, or that maybe some of that Wreckers nonsense kicked in at the last minute. You and Drift palled around with them under Springer and Kup, right?”

"I find him suspectful,” Rodimus argued all the same.

“You mean _suspect?”_ Brainstorm offered.

“I’m aware of what I mean,” Rodimus said with a dismissive wave of his servo. “Look, Brainstorm, it’s not like I _want_ to find out that Perceptor had more to do with this whole fiasco than he’s letting on or something. In fact, I think that’d hurt more than a shot to the spark – something I could _totally_ attest to since my co-captain once gave me that exact feeling back in the day. But I need to feel like someone I trusted before can be trusted again. Especially with all the nutso stuff that happened even on Cybertron. It’s like you can’t trust _anyone_ anymore.”

Curiously, Brainstorm glanced back to the group of new crew then to his captain. 

“You mean like all the unvetted members of this party?” Brainstorm asked. 

“Nah, this team’s great,” Rodimus dismissed again. “Even if they smell like new paint – seriously is it _me?_ That’s been following me around since we were still on the ship.”

Brainstorm shrugged but brought a hand to his chin all the same. He was attempting to think of anything of interest to tell Rodimus since it was explicitly clear he was along just for the joys of gossiping about Perceptor. 

He was drawing a blank, which left him with the one stage of conversation he _was_ always prepared for. 

“Have you ever thought of allowing me to take a full anatomical review of your armor?” Brainstorm asked, following the leader closely. 

“No?” Rodimus said skeptically, giving Brainstorm a critical look. “Why?”

“Your flame retardant abilities and your spontaneous combustion are fascinating points of study. It could even be an outlier ability! Depending on some tests–”

“That drains a lot of energon,” Rodimus said, shaking his head. “Makes me feel weak to the spark afterwards. I’d rather reserve it for special occasions.”

“Like scientific studies,” Brainstorm pressed.

“Like _being between a corner and a hot place,”_ Rodimus warned. “Drop it.”

Dissatisfied, Brainstorm scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Weren’t you the least bit curious about how, according to all the reports on Cybertron, the lead terrorist was using a flame-based attack?”

"I’m not following,” Rodimus said almost defiantly.

“Obviously,” Brainstorm repeated in annoyance. “Alright, allow me to break this down. Those terrorists attacked using weaponized flames. You have natural ability to combust. I am the foremost intelligence on weapons in the known universe. I am nearly _bouncing_ at the possibility of these things aligning in just _this_ spectacular order!”

Rodimus leered at Brainstorm. “No thanks,” he said. “Prove it’s something that won’t result with me blowing up first and then I’ll give it actual consideration.”

“How many other bots could I possibly experiment on for this?” Brainstorm asked before putting his hand back on his chin. “Hold on, don’t answer. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“We’re here!” one of the beastformers yelled out ahead, turning and waving them toward what seemed to be a lining of ruins ending with a mine shaft. “All the markers are leading us toward here.”

The group gathered around and Rodimus began glancing around as if to assess the exact situation. His optics fell on the shaft and he then returned them to Brainstorm. 

“I feel…. I don’t know, _drawn_ toward the shaft. But I think there’s a lot of stuff to sort through out here, too. Plus having half the group up here keeping a look out for trouble seems like a decent idea if I ever heard one,” Rodimus announced. 

“Sounds downright like leadership,” Brainstorm half joked. 

“I’m serious, Brainstorm, think you can handle keeping on lookout up here and _not_ getting distracted by some hypothetical weapon you could make out of one of the dulled rocks around here? I need you to watch out for these new guys,” Rodimus said, throwing his thumb toward the various gatherings. 

Brainstorm smirked beneath his faceplate and put his hands on his hips. “Is this what it feels like to be placed in a position of power? I think I like it. I could get used to it.”

“Glad one of us is,” Rodimus said with a cycle of his optics. He then pointed toward three seemingly random crew members. “You, you, and you, you’re with me. The rest of you stay on radio communication and do as Brainstorm says. Look around for anything that might reference Primus, the Knights, or quests of importance. Oh, and don’t do anything that may insult or anger the locals. Other than that… have fun.”

Most of the crew obeyed without question – Rodimus’ group following him immediately toward shaft. Brainstorm watched for a moment before turning around rather enthusiastically toward those under his own command only to find they had already split into various directions without his orders.

"Feh,” Brainstorm muttered, shaking his helm and keeping his servos on his hips. “No respect.”

After giving into the obvious fact that everybot around him were determined to do their own thing, Brainstorm began looking around the ruins and natural landscape for anything he could get creative with. It might have been the opposite of what Rodimus had ordered but, well, Brainstorm figured the captain knew what he was asking when he drug Brainstorm along on the journey. 

He was making  point of examining near the entrance of the mine shaft when a rumbling static came through on his radio. 

“Hmm,” Brainstorm muttered to himself, reaching to his helm and tapping to suss out the reason for the faulty connection. “Let’s see… how can I amplify this signal… Ah! Here we go–”

Almost immediately, Brainstorm’s mind was flooded with panicked yells. 

Optics wide, Brainstorm glanced toward the mine entrance and saw an orange flash, then another. 

“What the scrap!?” Brainstorm got out before turning on his pedes to look for the rest of the crew that Rodimus had left in his charge. “Hey! Get over here! We have–”

The weapons inventor stopped in his tracks and looked around, shocked, to see that there was no other mech in the whole area. They had all disappeared somehow when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Okay,” Brainstorm said, reaching up to his helm. “This might be time to panic. Lost Light? Lost Light, come in. This is Brainstorm. There’s something _unusual_ going on down here which, by the by, is code for _very very wrong_  and I think we need someone–”

_SCHLINK_

Brainstorm all but flinched at the sound. He vaguely heard a loud and impatient reply from the Lost Light, but it was all but lost in the moment and, suddenly, everything went blank. 

* * *

Windblade had fantasized about a commanding takeover of the capital from Starscream headed by the various Cybertronians she had come to befriend over her stay since the first moment that the leader had proven his true colors. But it was little more than a fantasy until they watched Optimus persuade others to doing just that. 

“Starscream is _not_ going to appreciate you exercising any signs of leadership after you showed him up once already, Optimus,” Windblade warned almost nervously.

“I would expect no different,” Optimus responded truthfully, watching as Rattrap commanded the security team to go against nearly everything their leader had ordered. He then glanced toward Windblade cautiously. “I have also heard rumors that Starscream has been listening to _outside influences_ long before this supposed plant on the Lost Light. Windblade, have _you_ any knowledge of that?”

At first, the delegate shifted in confusion. Then she thought of all the times she, and others, had come across Starscream speaking to seemingly no one. “He’s… sometimes consulting himself. Out loud. But I’m not certain if it carries any relevance. I certainly noticed it long before this cultish threat to Cybertron.”

The Prime was not nearly as persuaded by the suggestion as she had hoped he would be. “That we _knew_ of the threat,” he corrected her.

“What do you mean?” Windblade asked, confused.

“Such attacks – such devoted followings – they take time to cultivate,” he explained lowly. “Time, planning – and that is only _beginning_ the threat we saw develop in the attack. Think of what would have been needed in time and mechpower to develop an entire virus to attack the public with.”

Surprised, Windblade’s optics widened. “You believe Error’s cult has been manipulating us from the start? From even _before_ the start?”

Gravely, the Prime nodded. “With an unfortunate note of success.”

“Primus,” Windblade mustered just before all the security screens were overridden by Starscream’s furious face. 

“Rattrap! Why are we in lockdown!?” he demanded, enraged. 

“Ah, uh, Lord Starscream! You see, it’s just us trying to keep your best interest in mind, Sir,” Rattrap attempted, every line falling flat as he looked to the screens. “There’s a really good case to be made that there’s some serious threat here right now–”

"Were your exact intentions to lock me within the capital _with_ an attacker waiting at my berth!?” Starscream roared.

“What?” Windblade gasped out. 

“Of _course_ not!” Rattrap cried out. “We were only acting in your best interests, Lord Starscream. That _is_ always our goal, as you know.”

Stepping closer to the projections, Optimus narrowed his optics. “Starscream, do you feel you are currently in danger? Do you need Ironhide to mobilize a security team–”

“Oh, don’t act so pompously concerned _now,_ Prime,” Starscream all but snarled, backing away from his screens enough to show the rest of his chamber where, indeed, a detachment of badgeless guards had surrounded a heavily damaged and bleeding red and black painted mech. The face painting of a hand made them immediately distinguishable as one of Error’s cultists. “Fortunately, while you uselessly raised alarm and no doubt fed that never ending _news machine_ outside the walls a juicy story about fear for the city, truly honorable and dedicated guards came to my defense when _this_ degenerate tried to not only get to me but to our esteemed medical officers, working tirelessly to get to a cure.”

Something felt unsettled in her fuel pump and Windblade tightly clenched her servos while her lips formed a thin line. 

Chromia, far less subtle, squinted at the screens. “This doesn’t add up,” she muttered, just low enough for those within their circle. 

“Sir, I had no idea you were in such danger!” Rattrap continued to attempt his spin. “What do you need us to do?”

“ _Obviously_ I don’t need any of you for much of anything!” Starscream spat back sourly. “You have all made that much _clear._ But, please, continue to make amuck of this administration to prove whatever machismo point you are attempting to drive home.” His red optics slid toward Optimus in particular. “I’m sure the city will continue to feel _very_ safe knowing that their _Chosen One_ is just as capable of defending them as their Unproven Prime.”

The transmission cut abruptly, leaving all standing stunned. 

Rattrap reanimated first, grabbing the sides of his helm and throwing his head back dramatically with a long cry. “Oh, this is just great! I cave and listen to youse troublemakers and see where it gets me? Oh, _Primus!_ He’s going to oust me! He’s gonna throw me in the pin! Whatever in the world was I thinking listening to the likes of you–”

“We are doing the right thing by rising the alarm,” Optimus said firmly, stopping even Rattrap’s chatter. “The point remains that the threat from Error’s cult is still there. And it’s powerful enough that it’s not only shown suspicious behavior to me, but has appeared to attack the leader of Cybertron even within our own midsts. It is important for all in the city to know to be alert and responsible when faced with these continuing dangers. To _not_ become complacent.”

Though Rattrap still looked dissatisfied, he did not continue to put up an argument. Instead he crossed his arms and shook his head with a low mumble.

Chromia went a step further. “Something about this _still_ doesn’t sit right, Prime,” she warned him. “How did Starscream assemble those forces without letting anyone in this central security room know first?”

Windblade had soaked in about as much of the others’ input as she could muster before looking upward in determination. “That’s something I’ll just have to find out. Chromia, Optimus, stay here and continue with the plan – put everything on lockdown and make sure no one’s getting in or our of the city. _Especially_ through the space bridge.” 

“And just what are you doing?” Chromia demanded just before Windblade took off toward the halls. 

“What I’ve been doing for a year now!” she yelled back. “Keeping a closer optic on Starscream!” 

As much as Windblade could figure, there was only a fifty percent chance that Chromia was not going to tear off after her in her usual brash attempt to protect the cityspeaker. Fortunately, though, the odds on that day were more in Windblade’s favor.

Despite a jet currently acting as supreme ruler of all of the planet, the capital’s halls were not nearly large enough to allow for open flight with its tight corners, leaving Windblade to race on pedes alone toward Starscream’s chamber.

In the process, she nearly knocked over the confused looking Knock Out as he stepped outside the research lab with what could only be described as indignant annoyance. 

“What the frag is happening in this building!?” he demanded, directing his question to seemingly all of Cybertron. He then glanced toward Windblade as she narrowly avoided him. “Delegate Windblade!”

“I’m finding out for myself, Knock Out! You’ll know when I do!” she assured him, continuing on her race and venting wildly to cool down her excited systems. 

When she finally reached the chambers, however, she was grabbed and stopped by three badgeless guards who held her to the wall as the others passed through with the seeming prisoner. 

“Let go of me! Who do you think you are?” Windblade demanded angrily as she craned back and forth, attempting to get a better look at the culprit. 

The mech’s face was hung low and hidden behind cuffed forearms as he was being led off. It was hard to see anything resembling identifying features or even recognizable kibble. _Anything_ that might have given Windblade some understanding of what they had missed in their rush to lockdown to the city. 

“You may let her go,” Starscream’s grating voice called toward the badgeless.

The soldiers immediately did so and Windblade jerked back her limbs for added emphasis all the same. She leered at both sides before glancing toward Starscream with anger only rising once she saw his smug features. 

“Forgive the brash action, Cityspeaker, but they were merely attempting to keep you from the reaches of a dangerous, proven criminal and terrorist,” Starscream informed her slyly. 

“I’m sure,” she snapped back. “What exactly _happened_  since Rattrap last got orders from you, Starscream? Weren’t you going to be speaking to someone?” 

 _Something_ flickered across Starscream’s face but he quickly waved a servo callously in response. “I don’t know what you mean by such accusations, Windblade, but I’ll be certain to tell you and the rest of the citizens what happened here once those dolts of reporters come by to get the full scoop.”

As if she wasn’t suspicious before, Windblade certainly was then. She glared after him and assumed that the less times he had to tell his story the more times he could keep it straight. 

“The important thing for us all to remember is that _this_ time we have a captured criminal who _will_ spill any and all information they may have on their organization,” Starscream explained, glancing back at Windblade. “Something the _bravado_ couldn’t quite manage last time, as I recall.”

“Ironhide and his team kept close watch _and_ interrogated the last bots day and night, Starscream,” Windblade argued angrily. “They don’t talk, and they _definitely_ don’t give anything as useful as future plans away.”

Starscream tilted his helm. “Perhaps not through your conventional methods,” he said. “But I am _anything_ but conventional. You should know that well by now, Cityspeaker.”

Windblade clenched her denta. “Fine. You _still_ have to make good on your words here. With an _actual_ terrorist to exact your methods on. How _fortunate_ of you to have one delivered to your chambers and so easily taken down by guards you had at the ready.”

They squared of fin the hall, glaring at each other in silent anger. 

“Remember your place, Windblade,” Starscream hissed. “I grow tired of reminding you of it. And if you don’t believe that there are very much methods by which I can take what I want from unwilling processors… then, well, I suppose you colonists really _haven’t_ been fully read up on all of the inventions and doings of war.”

She kept her mouth shut as Starscream turned and walked away, but Windblade felt a sickening feeling growing in her spark. 

Chromia was right. The entire situation was _very_ wrong.


	9. 2.4 Claims for Mortilus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t even begin to apologize for how long this chapter has taken, but I am in what we call “hell semester” of vet school right now so my time has been severely cut down on and, beyond that, I’ve been taking finals for over a month (yikes!). But fortunately I’m back to a somewhat regular writing schedule and (hopefully!) will be able to finish Part II pretty soon : ) Thank you all for being so patient and I hope it will be a chapter worthy of your wait. 
> 
> Special thanks to Isame for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part II: The Fire Down Below  
Chapter 2.4: Claims from Mortilus**

There was no denying that Ratchet’s altmode was _not_ built for speed. But it wasn’t exactly like Drift’s was built for the jungle terrain. 

The beastformer from Eukaris was ahead of them, guiding their unconventional path with speed and dexterity that the two Cybertronians couldn’t hope to mimic. 

But they sped ahead all of the same. 

Even out of the old habit his stent on Earth had given him, Ratchet’s siren went off at the start of their race to get to the first group and Rodimus. 

“Rodimus! Come in!” Drift cried out over the open communication channels. “Rodimus, can you give us your position? Can you give us anything? Hello? _Slag it!”_

As he so often did under the stress and anger, Drift’s spiritual calm and converted discipline began to slip. His wheels threatened to spin out aggressively on the grasses and dirt beneath them. 

“Cool it, Drift!” Ratchet snapped. “They don’t answer and give us a position, we stay on course to their destination and start from there. Just keep following the kid in front. Even if this shortcut is a fragging _joke!”_ he couldn’t help but yell to let the beastformer know his irritation clearly. 

“It isn’t! We’re almost there!” he yelled back. “Just make sure everyone stays together! We’re crossing lots of tribal territories!” 

“I don’t care!” Drift ground out. It was loud enough for others to pick up, but Ratchet knew Drift meant it only for himself. 

“You have to keep yourself together,” Ratchet chastised. “Rodimus put _you_ in charge of this group, didn’t he? You want to,” he let out a grunt of irritation before continuing, “ _honor_ that faith he has in your spark, don’t you?”

Drift drew quiet for a moment.

Ratchet knew Drift to be a good bot at his core, even if he found the spirituality to be a superficial layer to a very frustratingly embittered bot still trying to find himself. He felt a wave of sympathy for that side of Drift so often buried under his devotions. 

But when his spark shone through, Drift _shone._

“Everyone stay close! We’re coming up on the destination and we have no idea what we’ll be coming across once we get there,” Drift called out to their small group. 

Under better circumstances, Ratchet might have allowed himself a secreted smirk.

 _These,_ however, were _not_ better circumstances. 

The moment they reached the site, the beastformer ahead of them transformed, landing hard on his pedes and looking out among the ruins in shock. 

Ratchet and Drift transformed and landed beside him almost simultaneously, but he didn’t have to see with his own optics what he could smell from the distance. 

Fire. Smoke.

The landscape was a crater of soot and destruction – what ruins stood were scorched and smoking, scuffs on rock and brick around them. 

Everything looked like it had been sent through an incinerator straight from the Pit and it made Ratchet’s fuel tank unsettled. 

The rest of their group fell silent and shocked. Most of them were too young and too foreign to war to really develop an immediate response to the sort of destruction seen before them. 

Ratchet had neither luxury and almost immediately pulled himself into the old motions. 

Instincts still sharp, he waved for one half of their ragtag team to draw closer to him. They fell into line without hesitation, almost bumbling into each other in distraction and shock toward it all. 

Drift’s face had a grim tone to it and he withdrew his greatsword with no hesitation at all, leering as he went forward. 

They moved into the destructive landscape, Ratchet feeling a numb cold cross over him as he saw the smoldering and scorches. The _heat_ that would have been required for such a scene was unreal – and the fact that the vegetation outside of the area was not still burning didn’t make sense. 

Organic life caught flame so much easier than the mechanical equivalent, and Ratchet knew that Eukaris should follow rules far closer to _Earth_ than Cybertron. Which meant the damage they were witnessing was controlled, meaningful, and contained. 

“Keep your optics set,” Ratchet growled out after it was clear that Drift was pulling ahead to check things out. He looked to the frightened bots around him. “We’re looking for our other team, but we’re _also_ looking for any threats. I want you to be vocal about either of them – but be smart about it. Don’t bring us trouble we didn’t ask for or need.”

“Ratchet!” Drift bellowed. 

Almost immediately, Ratchet ran toward Drift’s voice with their team in tow. 

Approaching, Ratchet could see that among the soot and blackened forest floor was a sheen of familiar metal in a teal hue. 

“Brainstorm!” Ratchet called out, helping Drift lift their crewmate onto his pedes. 

There was superficial damage to Brainstorm, and there was definite fire damage, but as he was beginning to online his optics. He wavered uneasily and the moment he put weight on his joints, he began to fall back, which led to Drift and Ratchet guiding him to sit down.

“Not the brain module, I use that,” Brainstorm mumbled only somewhat coherently.

“Brainstorm, what happened here!? Where’s Rodimus?” Drift demanded.

Yellow optics spinning, Brainstorm didn’t even seem to process the question fully, reaching around the ground as if he had misplaced something. “My briefcase…”

Alarmed, Ratchet dropped to his knee in front of Brainstorm and held up a finger before Brainstorm’s face. “Brainstorm, I need you to follow my finger. You may be concussed and I need to make sure none of your wires got crossed.”

Brainstorm’s head tilted slightly, his optics still unfocused. “But how did you get my briefcase?” he asked.

“I’m taking that as your wires are _definitely_ crossed more than usual then,” Ratchet couldn’t help but snark. 

“Um, S-sirs?” 

Ratchet and Drift glanced away from Brainstorm to see one of the crew standing beside a particularly scorched looking cave where a black smoke was still billowing through. At the entrance was one lump of scrap that Ratchet realized in horror made the frame of a small bot. 

“I don’t think… I think his spark is out,” the crew remarked, optics wide and looking aghast. 

“No,” Drift muttered before transforming and taking off into the cave, kicking up dust and soot as he sped forward. 

“Drift, wait– _damn it!’_ Ratchet growled. He turned and pointed at the nearest mech. “Get Brainstorm to his feet.” He pointed to the second nearest. “Contact the Lost Light and tell them to get the medbay ready. Tell Velocity we require every berth and CR chamber available. Tell her it’s an order directly from _me.”_

Immediately, the first bot came to Brainstorm’s side and began lifting him up with some difficulty. 

The second reached for his transmitter.

Looking toward the Eukarian, Ratchet cut him a look that was enough to make him leap back in intimidation. It wasn’t as if the old medic had time to softball things, though, so he paid the reaction no mind. 

“If we have survivors that require immediate attention, what’s nearby that we could use for help?” Ratchet demanded. 

“Eukaris doesn’t really focus on technology the way Cybertron does,” the mech acknowledged. “Even the tribes that do focus on things have nothing compared to even the slums of Cybertron. I guess we’ve never really had a need for it.”

“You haven’t had a need for _basic medicine?”_ Ratchet snapped. 

“B-but we’re real close to the spacebridge, just a few miles,” he continued. “So if we need anything we could make it to Cybertron. Maybe even faster than we could fly back into orbit. Especially you and Drift with your wheels.”

“Alright, well it’s _something,”_ Ratchet huffed angrily before checking up on the poor, sparkless soul that had been pointed out earlier. 

He was well past help, and Ratchet tried to ignore the itch down in his own spark at having to confirm death on another battlefield, not so much as knowing the _name_ of the bot before him. 

He shook his head and pulled the corpse further out of the cave entrance. They were going to need to load the mech and any other – give a proper ceremony and burial from the ship. 

“Look for more survivors,” Ratchet called out. “And gather those that didn’t, too. Keep the Lost Light updated on everything we’re finding.”

“ _RATCHET!”_ Drift’s vocalizer echoed from within the cave. 

An unusual sense of dread came over Ratchet and he moved into the cave. 

“Ratchet!” Drift continued to cry out. “It’s Rodimus!” 

Even without seeing anything for himself yet, Ratchet’s fuel tank lurched. Drift, for all his faults, did not fly into a panic at nothing. He was perhaps even more hardened by seeing battle and destruction than any Autobot. 

And yet there was an undeniable quiver to his voice then. 

“Scrap,” Ratchet muttered. 

* * *

Suspicions were already high, and though a part of Optimus knew he would need to leave for Earth sooner rather than later considering the exact circumstances he had left the planet and his team in, it was difficult to overlook the glaring oversights that were Starscream’s crumbling Cybertron.

Especially with the news Windblade had alarmingly shared with them.

“How do you suspect that Starscream will obtain information from these new prisoners?” Optimus asked seriously. 

“Whatever way he meant it, he definitely made it sound as if _willingness_ to talk wasn’t an obstacle to him,” Windblade informed them seriously. “But he wasn’t about to share his exact plans with me. I just know now to take that look and that determination absolutely seriously.”

It unsettled Optimus deep to his spark to have the suspicion he did about Starscream’s methods. 

“I tend to always be of the opinion that our Chosen One is venting steam,” Chromia offered, arms crossed as she stood by Windblade. 

“Always a possibility,” Ironhide agreed, shaking his helm. “But I’m mighty suspicious this time around. It sounds like he’s talking about something along the lines of _mnemosurgery,_ ey, Prime?”

When all optics fell on him, Optimus could not offer anything other than a grave look of his own. “I am afraid I thought much the same, Old Friend,” he admitted. “Starscream should always be taken as a threat, even if his penchant for overstatement has validity as well.”

“Mnemosurgery can’t _possibly_ be considered ethical or allowable,” Windblade said, a flicker of anger in her tone. “I’ll bring it up to the council – even if it is performed on Cybertron, I can’t imagine it being acceptable to the colonies. And we still don’t know the exact nativeness of this prisoner.”

“I am afraid the acceptability of mnemosurgery is a complicated subject on Cybertron,” Optimus informed Windblade somewhat reluctantly. He could still feel Ironhide’s gaze heavily on him.

“Well it truly shouldn’t be,” Windblade attempted to argue. 

They all silenced the disagreement with a shared ping. 

Optimus found himself surprised to see it was Wheeljack beckoning them yet again. There seemed to be nothing but alarm between them all on that day. 

“Go ahead, Wheeljack,” Optimus said, answering the call.

“Prime, you’re gonna want to be here pronto,” Wheeljack wasted no time in saying. “I’m getting a message from Eukaris – from Ratchet – they’ve been attacked and need clearance to use the spacebridge. It sounds _real_ bad. Especially coming from Ratchet.”

Optics widening, Optimus felt a coldness growing from the pit of his fuel tank – a sense of dread that he had long thought the war and subsequent turmoil had stricken from him. “What do you mean, Wheeljack? Who is harmed?”

Around him, Optimus sensed a deathly silence as even Windblade covered her intake with shock. 

“If I knew I’d tell you, Prime,” Wheeljack responded hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? We just need permission to open the space bridge given the current restrictions–”

“Permission is given,” Optimus said, already lunging into a run toward the lab containing the equipment. 

There was little hesitation from the others as they joined suit – nearly all simultaneously transforming to quicken the pace toward the laboratory. 

“No offense, Prime, but you’re not the one who restricted access to begin with. That was Starscream,” Wheeljack attempted to argue. 

“There is no offense because I do not care, Wheeljack,” Optimus said almost harshly. “I am granting you permission and I will take any punishment the leader of Cybertron wishes to give for it. But there are sparks on the line – our friends are in danger – and I will not allow for any further hesitation. So _let them through,_ Wheeljack. I am on my way to meet them.”

“You’ve got it, Prime,” Wheeljack answered over the frequency, a certain almost elation sounding in his tone. It was as if he had been waiting for a long time for Optimus to take charge in such a way. “I’ll also ping any medical staff in the building, get everybot ready for whatever Ratchet’s bringing to our doorstep.”

“Very good,” Optimus said, mind already transfixed with the worry and anxiety of the unknown they were beginning to face. 

The _unknown_ was a far more intimidating threat than the concerns about Starscream which Windblade and Ironhide were bringing to the table. 

By the time they reached Wheeljack’s laboratory and transformed, the anxiety of it all was eating through Optimus – wondering how there seemed to be an endless supply of trouble which followed their Lost Light fellow Autobots, and how much of that responsibility rested on his own shoulders, when the space bridge was already bursting open. 

“What equipment does Ratchet need that he could not get access to on their ship?” Optimus asked Wheeljack and the scientist looked over his shoulder to the new arrivals. 

“Didn’t mention it exactly, Prime,” Wheeljack admitted just before pure chaos came bursting through the bridge.

Ratchet and the former-Decepticon, former-Autobot, Drift were through first – there was something between them that at first Optimus did not even recognize as a frame at first. It was misshapen and torn down to the protoform beneath for most of it. Smoldering, blackened, and the smell of thick sulfur was undeniable. 

“By Solus Prime!” Windblade gasped. “Is that a _bot!?”_

“Primus, someone call up the lab and get the CR chamber prepared!” Ironhide yelled out to the incoming guards who stopped dead in their tracks as they saw more Lost Light bots coming through with additional mechs. “ _Multiple_ CR Chambers! For frag’s sake what happened–”

“The CR chambers aren’t going to matter for scrap if I can’t jumpstart their sparks!” Ratchet cried out, ignoring everyone around them interjecting. “Get me _First Aid!_ Tell him to get Optimus ready for a jumpstart!”

Surprised, Optimus looked at Ratchet. “I will do anything you need of me, Ratchet. But why specifically–”

“Sparks have to match, Optimus, or it won’t work and his is already at a pinprick. We don’t have the time to see if anyone else will work,” Ratchet spat out as everyone hurried around them to do as ordered. 

Finally, Ratchet’s optics landed fully on Optimus and he took the time to vent, to give the Prime a straight answer. “It’s Rodimus, Optimus. He’s going to die if we don’t do this.”

Horrified, Optimus stepped back in shock before at last looking fully at the mech carried between Ratchet and Drift – he was unrecognizable.

He was Rodimus.

Optimus’ spark – the _Matrix_ – screamed out to the dying mech like he had never felt before. 

* * *

Rattrap knew to stay out of Starscream’s way, and the Cybertronian ruler could not have been more appreciative to not have his sniveling in proximity. 

Not when he was moments from removing all of his head scientist’s security clearances. “I should have _known_ Wheeljack would have me regret ever bringing his husk back online,” he growled, heading toward the communications deck in a flurry.

 _This is the best thing that could have happened to you and you know it,_ Bumblebee’s voice sighed as he seemingly clunked along beside Starscream. Ever present, ever the annoying conscience that Starscream had never experienced. _If they had gone through you, you would have had to justify refusing assistance to Cybertronians. By not going through you, your facilities are helping save lives_ and _you get to be entitled to unfounded irritation that your rule was undermined._

Optics narrowed, Starscream vented thickly. “It’s all because of _Prime._ It always is–”

 _Saving his friends is what Optimus does, for better or worse,_ Bumblebee sighed. _Most of the time, anyway._

A small curl came across Starscream’s mouth. “Yes, I heard that, rather _unfortunately,_ things are not looking good for the Lost Lighters being treated by our local doctors right now. A true tragedy. A _shadow_ which seems to consistently follow the Autobot ship.”

 _You can’t honestly be happy with this,_ Bumblebee marveled.

“Of course I’m not, I simply want answers,” Starscream replied, bursting through the doors of the communication deck and causing the operatives within to nearly leap from their seats. “I need contact with the Lost Light – I need to speak with _Captain_ Megatron.”

Fully ignoring Bumblebee, Starscream stepped up to the communicator and waited anxiously as his subjects worked to do as their leader willed. 

He gathered himself in the way he always needed to before facing his former _Lord Megatron._ Starscream reminded himself of the depths to which he had fallen, to the loss of all Decepticon loyalty, and of Starscream’s own rise to the very ranks which Megatron could never achieve.

His smile was set firmly on his face as the visage of Megatron’s projection appeared before him. 

There was nothing but displeasure in Megatron’s expression as he stared back at Starscream. “Starscream,” he said as if he were tasting poisoned energon.

“Megatron,” Starscream returned almost too easily, watching the flicker of irritation that crossed his former leader’s face at the address. “Exactly _what_ chaos is your renegade crew causing for relations with our dearly rediscovered colonies?”

There was hardly a mark of remorse or shame on Megatron’s consistently proud demeanor. How he managed it with an Autobrand on his chest and a hefty defeat as he had suffered was utterly beyond Starscream, but the Lost Light captain stood firm under Starscream’s gaze. 

“You would be in a position to know more than I am, Starscream,” Megatron said flatly. 

It was the sort of stately detachment that Starscream had become all too familiar with over the eons of war and serving under Megatron, watching as the leader boldly made strikes which sacrificed loyal Decepticons at rates that matched the enemies’ own losses. 

But then it changed, however subtly. It was an unexpected shift in Megatron’s shoulders, a tightness to his grimace that was forced and unnatural as if to hide a true expression. 

Though really it rested in his optics. A certain, softened glow that Starscream almost felt taken aback by. 

“We know that the injured successfully made it through the space bridge to Cybertron,” Megatron said, voice strong despite the noticeable chinks Starscream found in the mech’s armor. “Our away team has not been in contact since that point. We need to know the status of our crew.”

Annoyed in ways that he had never truly felt before, Starscream leaned forward into the console and sneered at Megatron’s request. “You can’t even ask how they’re doing in the form of a question? Tsk tsk, Megatron. That’s no way to speak to _Lord_ Starscream, Ruler of Cybertron.”

“Are they living?” Megatron snapped.

“I wouldn’t know,” Starscream spat back. “I’m too preoccupied with matters of the _state._ Such as the fact that I am consistently being undermined by the very forces that nearly destroyed our dear planet with their petty, self-centered war for the past four million years.” He then waved to the rest of the room for emphasis. “Including the _illegal use of a closed space bridge_ against my mandate! An intercolonial crisis is now on the line. All because of your ship and its incompetent crew.”

Just as Starscream knew he would, Megatron fully unleashed his temper.

“I don’t have time for your political games, Starscream!” he pronounced angrily, the sound of his hands being slammed on his own communication deck unmistakable. “We will find out for ourselves–”

Momentarily, a surge of fear went through Starscream, the likes of which he had not felt in a very long time. But he quickly quelled it and recalled just who was in charge of Cybertron and who _was not._

Pointing at the hologram of Megatron, Starscream snapped, “If you turn around that ship I will find you and every member of your crew to be _hostile bodies_ and shoot you from our skies, Megatron. I do not believe you understand the magnitude of _fear_ your flunkies of a crew have re-unleashed on this planet and all of the colonies in coalition with us by passing through the space bridge while it is ordered that we are to do no such thing in fear of spreading that damned disease.”

“I need to see that my crew is safe!” Megatron snarled back.

Always thinking ahead, Starscream had prepared himself for many avenues of retort, but he had _not_ expected to hear the unfiltered truth found in Megatron’s word, or the pure outrage not at being defied but out of _interest in others._

At least, Starscream had not seen it since the very earliest days of the Decepticon movement. Back when they still feigned to have a heart at the center of it. 

Widening his optics some, Starscream tilted his head. “If I was more of a fool, Megatron, I would believe that that is actual concern for your fellow Cybertronians there. If I was foolish enough to believe you were either capable of the sentimentality or the raw stupidity of such attachments.” He watched confidently as Megatron stepped back from his communicator, optics narrowed but silent like a well beaten turbofox. “My, my. Who would have guessed how far you had fallen, _Lord Megatron,”_ Starscream said, dripping with irony. He turned to leave, his back to the former Decepticon leader. “Do _not_ defy me and turn that ship around, Megatron. Unlike _some_ former Decepticons, my spine was not constructed of _tin.”_

The leader of Cybertron made his way down the halls and toward the science wing of the facility where already quite a ruckus was outside – more than a few of the familiar faces were that of the Council.

Wings drooping, Starscream let out a long vent. “No rest for the wicked,” he sneered just before he was spotted and swarmed by guards, media, and council members alike.

At the front of the line, Eukaris’ own Airazor and Tigatron. 

“Is it true, Lord Starscream!?” Tigatron snarled. “Cybertronians broke the quarantine and have brought down devastation upon our lands!?”

“We’re hearing about landing troops and a possible plague outbreak from our home,” Airazor added, only minimally holding back her smarkmate. “How can that be? You told us that we were going to _protect_ our colonies! How can that be true when you so brazenly bring chaos to us!”

“Carcer will _not_ stand for this to spread to our own colony, nor, I assume, shall any of the others!” Obsidian said, looming over them all. “If there are truth to the rumors then Cybertron is attempting the sort of forceful invasions it professed that this Council of Worlds was meant to protect us from!”

“Please, please, everyone calm down – misinformation and further spreading of it is not becoming of anyone with our prestigious example,” Starscream said, waving to them all. “There are many questions that I will _personally_ be getting answers to, but I assure you, whatever threats are brought to the colonies by any _rogue former_ Cybertronian forces of _any_ alliance, I and the regency of Cybertron will stand firmly by this Council as it has from the beginning.”

“And we are to simply take your word after all the misery we have recently witnessed under your rule here?” Tigatron hissed.

“No,” Starscream said promptly, causing some surprise from the delegates. “Take the word of fellow delegates – all our answers are currently in the laboratory – Knock Out is stationed there and will most likely be overseeing _everything_ that is coming in or out. I also notice that _Windblade_ is not among us. I’m sure as you all know Windblade by now, that can only mean that she is stuck in the thick of whatever is currently unraveling. It _is,_ after all, her way.”

While not exactly _appeased,_ the crowd around Starscream relented and he had a much easier time of pressing past them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be attempting to retrieve some of those answers you all were looking for.”

Before he could be stopped by the Council again, Starscream shoved past various guards and other gathered mech working within the building to make his way toward the door of the laboratory he had so graciously given Knock Out and First Aid control over. 

“Make way! Your honored Chosen One is coming through!” Starscream proclaimed as he finally reached inside the door. 

As he might have guessed, the entire ‘ _gang’_ of his usual suspects were all within the walls, crowded together around a slew of medical slabs that had once been for victims of the curious plague that swept through Cybertron. 

“By the Primes,” Knock Out’s familiar voice all but cooed, leading Starscream to his side near immediately. The Velocitron looked to Starscream once then smiled as he looked back to First Aid and what looked to be the Autobot Ratchet fast at work around the smoldering carcasses of various mechs. “I’ve never seen such a procedure before! I stand corrected about Cybertron’s medical advancements. It seems we are very _much_ able to learn from you yet.”

“What are you talking about?” Starscream scoffed. 

“With barely a pinprick of spark left, they _boosted_ the injured Cybertronian by hooking him to the Prime’s spark chamber. It was _quite_ the electric show, you should have seen it,” Knock Out said gleefully.

Starscream all but rolled his optics. “But of course, Optimus puts his very spark on the line for the tiniest of fellow bots. I have heard it all before, and it is not what I am here for–”

“It wasn’t a tiny bot from the Prime’s reaction,” Knock Out said with a wave of his sharp servo. “I’m fairly sure it was the rude bot that interrupted our session – the co-Captain–”

Optics widened, Starscream stepped forward to get a better look at the mech most of the staff were circled around. It was unrecognizable from his distance but still the energon surged through body. 

Turning on his heels, Starscream grabbed Knock Out by the shoulders and shook him. “Are you telling me that is _Rodimus_ on that slab?”

Raising a brow, Knock Out looked at Starscream suspiciously. “Yes? Is that a _problem,_ Lord Starscream?”

“No, no, not for me,” Starscream said, releasing the delegate and looking across the way as Optimus Prime slowly sat up on his own slab, gingerly closing the frame to his spark chamber himself before looking almost painfully toward the injured bots around him. “However, I _do_ know just who shall be under arrest for this _heinous_ intergalactic incident.”


	10. 2.5 Acolytes of Primus' Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the time lapse but it’s better than last time at least!! Right? Right? -__- Ah well. We’re officially at the end of Part II, though! So yay for that!!! 
> 
> Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, Isame, and squiggol for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part II: The Fire Down Below  
Chapter 2.5: Acolytes of Primus’ Light**

Velocity trusted Nautica, Rung, Nightbeat Rewind, and Chromedome, and she _knew_ that the quantum engineer was confident in the warp drive of Ultra Magnus’ ship, but it did not make her feel any less queazy to arrive at Cybertron’s main port and be met with the amount of scrutiny and security measurements that they had in place for them.

First Aid had requested her services, and Velocity was obliged to assist him – she was just as responsible for the lives of their crew as Ratchet and First Aid were, perhaps even _more_ so seeing as how she was left in charge of the Medbay just before the mutiny and all. 

And he _had_ warned her in their brief communication that Cybertron was going to be very protective given all the recent events. 

Still, the compartment search was more than unnecessary.

“They’re _all_ medical supplies,” she assured the guards as she hugged her arms and watched them go through each item she had brought in her subspace compartment. “I am a _doctor._ It’s what I’m here for. I thought, given everything that’s happened, that Cybertron would be more happy to have an increase in medical staff. Including psychologists.”

“You’re from the Lost Light, ma’am, and that was infiltrated by the terrorist organization,” the tiny guard argued strongly. “ _And_ you brought four friends who are _not_ doctors.”

“One is our quantum engineer,” she said, nodding to Nautica to make her point. “And Chromedome was requested to come by the Prime himself, and of course he should be able to bring his Conjunx with him.”

The tiny guard tilted his helm and pointed to where Nightbeat was unloading several unusual and unexplainable items from his own compartments. “And that one?”

“He thinks there’s some sort of mystery to unravel,” Velocity shrugged. “Solas Prime couldn’t keep him off our ship once he got whiff of a case. But if you need more reason, he’s my Amica.”

That caused the bot to take pause, look back to Nightbeat, then to Rung, and then to Nautica before falling back on Velocity herself. His optics were nearly squinting at her. “You are third to claim that.”

With suspicion laden in his voice, Velocity sighed and knew she was going to have to waste _more_ of her precious time conversing with the security rather than assisting her mentors with the Lost Light’s patients. It was threatening to put her in a _mood._

“That would be because there are several of us who are all joined Amica Endura together,” Velocity explained testily. “One of which happens to be in the medical ward at the capital, and after everything we’ve been through, we would _prefer_ to go on our way, help who we can, and check on our loved ones.”

“You can’t have multiple Amica,” the bot dismissed with a wave of his servo.

Velocity couldn’t help but bristle. “Absolutely one can! And I do. Obviously. I just explained.”

“Figures _you mechs_ would throw such a thing around so easily,” the bot shook his head and began writing something down on his datapad before shoving all of Velocity’s supplies back to her. 

Thrown off by the tone, Velocity pressed her lips together. “ _You mechs?”_ she asked thinly. 

“Camiens,” he clarified. “It’s just… obscene to have more than one Amica. Unnecessary. It devalues it.”

“Then I’m happy, both as a mech and as a doctor, to be from Caminus, where one’s spark is large enough for all the world if you let it be,” Velocity responded, taking her supplies and quickly placing them in her subspace as the rest of their motley crew at last made their way over to her. “Are we ready to go to the capital?” 

“Sure, I’ll lead the way,” Nightbeat said, somehow managing to still have cheer in his voice despite the general mood. He then transformed into his altmode, only to get a few coughs from Rung and Chromedome. 

“ _Some_ of us do not have the most applicable of altmodes,” Chromedome said, a firm hand resting on his Conjunx’s shoulder.

Rewind vented and threw up his hands halfheartedly. “Here we go again about the altmodes.”

“And I’m afraid my scooter wouldn’t be _quite_ as fast as those of us with wheels,” Rung added. “Not to mention those of us who have different modes of transportation entirely.”

Nautica gave a worried smile and shrugged. “Point me at Cybertron’s nearest lake and we’ll be ready to go.”

“Sorry, Nightbeat,” Velocity picked up, closing her subspace, now filled once more with her medical supplies, “You’ll need to point us in the proper direction of the capital _without_ the tour on wheels.”

Without another word, Nightbeat transformed and showed a slight grimace on his face. “Well, that’s not nearly as fun.”

“Story of my life,” Chromedome joked lightly as he and Rewind joined the others in walking out of the security kiosk in botmode, ignoring the less than amused shaking of Rewind’s head. 

While she was no Cybertronian and her experience with the planet had been fairly limited to her short visits thus far, walking the streets toward the capital building still managed to be eye opening for Velocity. 

The already unsettled and curious atmosphere of the planet had shifted rather prominently to something far more uncomfortable. Like the pit one could swear their spark would fall toward within their sparkchamber that simply wasn’t there. 

Last time she had visited, there were groups and couples who were all about each and every corner, with the streets busy with activity. 

Sparse a cycle later it seemed that the bots all huddled in doors of buildings and indoors all together, nothing but straight, direct traffic lining the streets, and hardly anyone but the Lost Lighters themselves on the actual sidewalks. 

Cybertron felt like an unhappily cold place at that point. It almost pained Velocity to her spark. 

Nightbeat dutifully led them to the capitol building and once more they were met with the most unhelpful looking guards imaginable. All stood strongly opposed to letting the group forward even a single micrometer. 

“Hold up, we need to inspect each of you before you come anywhere close to entering these restricted areas!” one of the guards growled out, his broad servo held up making it _very_ tempting to smack it down.

Immediately, the entire group broke out in groans aside from Rung who merely cleaned his lenses with a soft vent. 

“This is getting ridiculous!” Chromedome said, putting a hand against the side of his head. “We were _asked_ to come here.”

“Velocity is a doctor and they need her talents _immediately!”_ Nautica added, coming up to Velocity from behind and grabbing her by the shoulders so as to better position her up front of the group. 

Velocity did not struggle against the pushing but she did give a strained glance back toward her old friend. 

“Is this true?” the guard asked, tilting his helm. “We _are_ allowing further medical staff through. But the rest of you will need a thorough search.”

“It’s true,” Velocity answered quickly. She glanced back. “Sorry everyone, but if I can help the injured–”

“Absolutely,” Nightbeat nodded.

“Do whatever you can,” Rewind urged. 

“We absolutely support you, dear Velocity,” Rung assured her, leaving Velocity to turn back on her heels and offer her credentials to the guards. 

They took a moment to examine her but not a moment more, waving her through the doors. Velocity ducked her head, sent a swift thank you to her friends, and rushed on in, hoping that the inside of the building would be simple enough for her to navigate and find the medical bay for. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like Primus was on her side with that one.

Velocity circled a corridor at least twice before running into the same, scraggly looking beastformer with large buckteeth took notice of her and grabbed her by the wrist.

“Hey, you supposed to be here or are they lettin’ scrap wander in from off the streets again?” he demanded rather testily.

“What is _with_ how rude this planet has become?” Velocity demanded, wrenching her wrist back. “I was _requested_ here. I’m a doctor and my services are very much needed–”

“You, uh, from the Lost Light?” he asked, tilting his helm. “Well then. My sincerest apologies! Let me just lead you to the laboratories so _you_ can deal with those overbearing bots instead’a me for once.”

Velocity cycled her optics and nearly stepped back from the bot. She hadn’t expected that reaction whatsoever. “Oh! Yes. I mean, yes! Thank you!”

“Eh, don’t thank me ‘til you work with them,” he snapped with a flip of his wrist as he led the way.

Frowning, Velocity began digging in her subspace for her medical kits. “If it’s Ratchet and First Aid, I think I already have something of a preview of what is to come.”

“Heh, if that was _all_ there was,” the bot replied. “What was your designation again?”

“I didn’t say it,” Velocity corrected. “But it’s Velocity. And you’re–”

“Pfft, like you don’t know Lord Starscream’s righthand bot by sight,” the mech responded dismissively before finally leading her to the room. “Alright, do your stuff, Doc. And for _your_ sake, I hope you’ve got some real talent because these guys? They’re high strung about _every_ single spark in there.”

She gave him a glance before continuing in. “As doctors I would _hope_ they would be…” she replied lowly. 

“You bots from the Lost Light have some weird bond or something, huh? The way you all act when just a few of ya are banged up,” he said before waving some guards off from the laboratory entrance. “You guys know that’s really not normal behavior.”

“I’m really not comfortable with what Cybertron seems to consider being normal then,” Velocity said tiredly. “Thank you for showing me the way—“

The beast former was gone in an instant, and Velocity could not pretend to be anything but relieved about it as she carried forward through the room and was inducted into another bout of absolute chaos that being on the Lost Light had made her far too familiar with.

The laboratory that they spoke of was, without exaggeration, a _research_ lab first and obviously retrofitted for medical needs second. That was made abundantly clear as she pushed past several pieces of equipment that had been haphazardly shoved together to the other side of the room and toward the entrance in order to make way for the medical beds and cryochambers that had been placed on the other end.

She could still smell the distinctive tang of soldering stitching meeting paint jobs, and there were plenty of ticking clocks letting her and all of the available medical staff know just how desperate the states of some of the sparks in their care were.

It was a horror show as a physician to approach the slabs and see once familiar faces dented in and crushed, scorched in various places with metal twisted and broken where it wasn’t melted and malformed entirely. Her spark screamed out in empathy toward them all.

“Primus,” she whispered.

“Velocity!” First Aid’s familiar voice called, turning her toward where Ratchet and some other, less familiar mechs were all standing. “I called on you ages ago, did you just get here?”

“Security on Cybertron is not the easiest to navigate,” she answered, coming up to the various doctors. “First Aid, Ratchet, what _happened_ down there?”

“We haven’t the first clue,” Ratchet answered somewhat angrily. “But the first one to wake up is going to have a lot of questions to answer, that’s for sure.” He then looked more directly to Velocity, his expression tightening in that way that all of them who had been on the Necrobot planet and made it off tended to do however unknowingly. The face of being completely reserved while knowing a shared secret. “The lot of us have been working around the clock to keep everyone we could online, and the few of us who lack field experience could use some reprieve.”

Two of the physicians by Ratchet and First Aid’s sides immediately bristled at the jab.

“After watching the utter hack jobs you two performed on those frames, you think _we_ are the ones who are misplaced?” the red doctor scoffed. “On Velocitron, that sort of sloppy work would have had your credentials taken away within a cycle!”

“Which makes it lucky no one here’s performing for the boards of Velocitron,” Ratchet snapped, his irritation already seemingly at an all time high.

Velocity glanced between the mechs a few times over before focusing on her mentor. She stepped up to First Aid, gripping her medical kit. “Did we lose anyone?”

He looked at her gravely. “We did,” he answered stiffly. “We have three still hanging in there but… It’s a bit of an intergalactic incident now. A lot of the dead were colonists.”

In truth, Velocity could not have cared less about the politics of it all, her spark sank at the very thought of losing _anyone_ among their crew. Whether she knew them personally or not. But then again, there _were_ the ones she knew personally.

“Brainstorm?” she asked quickly.

“One of the least injured,” Ratchet spoke up. “We’re expecting him to come online first. Whatever attack it was, he seemed to be hit and taken out of the action early on.”

“Who are the other two survivors?” Velocity demanded.

“A new member of the crew named Fang,” First Aid answered. He then brought his servo to his faceplate and hummed slightly. “And… well, Rodimus.”

Hearing that their co-Captain was among the survivors should have sent Velocity into a wave of relief, but she could hear one of the doctors — the red one again — vent loudly as he crossed his arms and looked toward the CR chambers.

 _“If_ you consider that _living,”_ he said rather harshly.

Inside of her, Velocity felt her insides twist and turn at the comment but her curiosity had been piqued. Either this particular doctor was one of the crudest physicians she had ever met — a _feat_ considering she mentored under First Aid and Ratchet — or the hesitation First Aid had shown earlier was for good reason.

Without waiting for further briefing, Velocity walked toward the CR chamber and nearly gasped at the sight.

Surviving the onslaught of the DJD and the seemingly endless amount of former Deceptions they had gathered at the Necrobot’s planet had prepared her for some fairly gruesome sights — namely when it came to the very bots she cared most about. But Rodimus’ current unconscious form seemed to bring those experiences into question.

His outer armor was nearly melted down to his protoform beneath, and there were scorches across what remained of his armor. But most terrible of all was the way his protoform and faceplate were burned down to their barest layer over the side of his right face — a handprint etched into the very barest layer of his body in truly horrifying fashion.

“Solas _Prime,”_ Velocity said, putting her hand against the glass of the CR chamber.

“It looks bad, but he’ll make it through.”

The voice took Velocity by surprise but she was relieved when she saw that in the shadows just beside the CR chamber it was simply Drift. She was not the most familiar with him of their crew, but she knew him and respected him enough to trust him. And there was some comfort in the way he was sitting prepared in the shadows of Rodimus’ chamber. Like a guard on vigil.

“He has to,” Drift said, as if it were a matter of complete fact.

“Of course,” Velocity answered quietly.

“Until his vitals change, Rodimus’ healing is up to the CR chamber,” Ratchet announced from behind Velocity. “I’ve been keeping my optics on it. But we could really use an extra hand with the other two. Give these guys a real break. Including First Aid. He’s lacked a good recharge since _before_ we brought this load of work to his doorstep. Researching that Red Rust outbreak and everything.” He looked at Velocity warily. “Are you ready for the responsibility?”

“Of course I am,” Velocity answered matter of factly. “I’ve been taught by the best.”

* * *

Chromia was still in recharge as Windblade looked out upon Metroplex from their capitol suite. The cityspeaker was still attempting to process all that had happened in just the short amount of time since they had been contacted by the away team of the Lost Light and all hell had broken loose in order to get them safely to Cybertron.

Starscream’s initial anger had been anticipated — even looked forward to in a sick sense that Windblade tried not to think of as speaking for her character. But the calm that had followed and his silence on the matter since then.

He was up to something, and as usual Windblade felt hopelessly behind in their game, barely scraping by in her attempts to catch up to a master manipulator while still retaining some sense of the morality she once wore as intimidatingly as armor.

There was a yawn from behind her that brought Windblade out of her thoughts and she looked instead toward her partner and bodyguard. Chromia stretched before pushing off from her habsuite and beginning to stretch and exercise in her usual routine.

“Did you recharge at all?” Chroma asked. “You know you’ve gone through the ringer lately, you could use more recharges. Especially more than I do.”

“I’ve been through nothing compared to those poor bots,” Windblade corrected with a frown.

Chromia’s optics nearly rolled. “Those poor bots were lucky that you and the Prime seem to be the only mechs with half a processor firing on this godforsaken planet, Windblade. If you two weren’t there to defy Starscream—“

“We defy because he continues to _allow_ us to defy him, Chromia,” Windblade said, hugging her arms. “Can’t you see the politics at play here?”

“I don’t have a mind for politics,” Chromia shrugged. “That would be why I’m the bodyguard and you’re the delegate here.”

“By letting Optimus Prime and myself carry out these rouses against his orders, he is both the strong leader who is unyielding on his policies, and able to stake claim to good that the Prime and we do against the orders of the Council, along with all of the repercussions falling on our shoulders,” Windblade explained.

“Then, when there aren’t lives at risk, you and the Prime need to force Starscream’s hand, make him break his own ridiculous laws,” Chromia answered simply.

“There are _always_ lives at stake here,” Windblade sighed, looking back to her window. “Always. This planet truly is a constant conflict.”

“Must be why I feel at odds with its charm,” Chromia replied, resting against the window with her arms crossed. “I prefer when the only one at risk for hitting things is _me.”_

Windblade gave her old friend a small smile. “Same,” she said somewhat cheekily. “Still, I just wish that doing the _right_ thing didn’t also always mean doing the _wrong_ thing. It’s getting a bit…”

“Annoying?” Chromia offered.

A reply was ready on her lips, but Windblade stopped and stared at the city square below instead. She felt a cold chill splash through her fuel tank as the news screens lit up with a hauntingly familiar and all too terrifying face once more.

“Chromia,” Windblade said lowly. “Error.”

“What?” Chromia asked, not following.

“Error,” Windblade repeated, pointing on the glass toward the vliewscreens lit up with his face. “Why is he on the news again!?”

“When since the attacks have the news _stopped_ being about him?” Chromia tried to rationalize.

“Not like this,” Windblade admonished before opening the windows of their room and focusing to listen on the speakers down below.

“Citizens of Cybertron and its claimed worlds—“

“By the Primes,” Windblade gasped, optics widening. “It’s another live broadcast.”

"I have warned your people and your lands before of my power. The power to _cleanse_ Cybertron and all its systems of those not worthy of the Prime’s hand,” Error proclaimed on all the screens and all of the speakers of Cybertron, drawing a silence over even Windblade and Chromia.

Windblade watched, optics wide, barely glancing as Chormia stepped forward to shield her from the invisible threat between her and the screens below.

“First I weeded us of the weak and unworthy,” Error explained, backing away enough to show more of his bulk than just the frame of his head. Then he held up both of his hands and immediately shot a powerful, blinding flame through them both. “Now it is time that the Hand of the Primes baptize you by fires. And we have already begun.” 

“The Lost Light crew,” Windblade realized out loud. 

“No doubts there, Cityspeakder,” Chromia muttered. 

“And I shall begin by cleansing our religion, dearest Cybertron,” Error declared. “By taking what is the right of any true Prime – by taking the Matrix of Leadership for myself. And _burning_ all the false prophets who have tarnished it.”

They watched as all the screens went blank with the end of the threat, and then all of Cybertron let out a terrified and confused screams.

“We have to find Optimus,” Windblade said quickly.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Chromia sighed, grabbing her lance. 

While the cynicism in Chromia’s voice was not lost on Windblade, she concentrated on getting to Prime as soon as possible instead. There was little time, at least in the cityspeaker’s mind, for playful banter even as they raced down the halls and toward the science labs where Prime had been spending most of his time since the emergencies from Eukaris. 

There was a mech speaking to Optimus that Windblade only faintly recognized from being surrounded by more familiar faces – Camien faces that she knew were Lost Light crew members now like Nautica. 

The one standing in front speaking to Optimus was locked hand-in-hand with a minibot who was practically radiating his displeasure toward the Prime.

“Even if I wanted to help you, Optimus, I can’t anymore,” the tall mech said with a defensive shake of his head. “I don’t even have my needles anymore. I’m… I’m recovered from the craft. Had Ratchet himself remove them. And judging by his reaction to the last time I used them… I find it hard to believe that you ran this idea by him first.” 

“I am sorry if I have offended you by making such a dangerous request, Chromedome,” Optimus said lowly.

“We flew all the way from the Lost Light just because of your request, too. I think we need an apology for _that,_ too,” the minibot raged.

“Rewind,” Chromedome attempted to say soothingly only for Rewind to shake his head angrily.

“Don’t _Rewind_ me, Domey! You almost _died_ right in front of us! We _saw_ it! If you ever thought of doing it again after what we went through? After it basically killed you? I… I’d have to extinguish my own spark. I’ve not helped you at all,” Rewind cried out.

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” Chromedome said achingly, grabbing the minibot’s other hand and lacing fingers. He then vented strongly and looked to the Prime. “I cannot perform mneumosurgery for you, Optimus, Sir. It’s not possible. I wouldn’t do it if it _were_ still possible. I wish I could help you some other way with finding out what Rodimus and our other crewmates encountered, but that’s more of Nightbeat’s business.”

"Thank you, but seeing my options as they are currently, it seems my next step has been made _for_ me,” Optimus vented.

“Prime!” Windblade yelled out, not waiting a second more since the conversation between the Prime and the Lost Lighters was all but over. “Error has returned – he’s making demands and he’s specifically focusing on _you_ and the Matrix this time! We have to get you out of danger before he makes a move.”

Optimus looked at Windblade and Chromia for a moment before placing his hands on his hips. “Then it seems Starscream’s assignment to me must have been even more opportune for him than he realized.”

“Starscream?” Windblade questioned, unable to prevent her nose from curling at even just his name.

“He has charged me with determining what happened to Rodimus and the Lost Light crew on Eukaris. And since I cannot do that while remaining here, I will do so where I can,” Optimus explained. “And keeping myself far from the public will do well to keep it safe if this Error truly plans on acting on his words. I will not be defending myself in the streets of Metroplex.”

Windblade narrowed her optics. “After all of this, you’re going to _Eukaris?_ To be slaughtered like this crew?”

“No,” Optimus said with a shake of his head. “The Counsel is very outspoken about keeping the various colonies and Cybertron separate until they have an answer. I will be setting foot elsewhere. Getting answers from the Lost Light itself.”

Windblade’s mouth opened but she did not have a ready reply. 

Only a feeling deep in her spark that something was still very, _very_ wrong.

* * *

Megatron was receiving information from the medical station on Cybertron as quickly as the data could be carried between the stars, and it still felt far from enough.

Even with non-affiliated and even former-Decepticon members of the crew on the rise, the Lost Light remained a specifically Autobot ship. And his position on it remained purposefully precarious. And with his co-Captain among the injured — well, it was difficult to say _what_ his position even was anymore.

The Lost Light had always been restless, but weeks after a mutiny, a plague, and now weathering an away team’s near decimation might prove to be more than the crew could bear to stomach under a Megatron ran ship.

Perhaps Optimus was going to receive the retribution he had always thinly veiled through the bogus position and the watered down Fool’s Energon.

“Just for sport,” Megatron said lowly at his Captain’s desk, reading through the filtering in reports, “I won’t break so easily, Prime. You’ll have to try a bit better to take advantage of our _second_ darkest hour.”

Still, he hoped that the bar was still packed with that low-grade shrill water Swerve was posing as high-grade. The less drunks they had on the ship, the less likely they would have a medical emergency at the one time that they had exactly _no one_ on the medical staff.

Still staring at the documents on his tablet, Megatron waited for _something_ to pop out at him — good news, bad, _something_ that resembled a clue as to what happened before threats of an official inquiry against the Lost Light were actually made. He knew his own crew at the bridge were still scrambling under the orders he gave them to find anything and everything that could be relevant to the events on Eukaris.

So far no one had come to his office to tell him they had found nothing from the ship’s various files. Megatron figured this was more of a sign of fear than of the new bridge crew’s undying need to find answers for themselves.

He was more than ready to give up on his reading when, finally, a knock came to his office door.

“Finally,” Megatron said, setting aside his tablet and leering at the door. “Enter.”

It was unsurprising to be met by Ultra Magnus’ face. He was both the only crew member left who made up for what he lacked in fear of Megatron with respect for positions and order, and the only mech who seemed even more personally dedicated to the current mystery than Megatron himself.

Magnus was the former duly-appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. If that meant _anything_ in these days.

“Word from Cybertron I suspect,” Megatron said crisply, doing little to hide his anger and irritation at even the possibility of receiving contact from Starscream again after last time.

“There _is_ that,” Magnus answered, coming in and quickly shutting the door behind him — which was more than enough to put the captain on edge. “Though it is not what I believe you think it to be, Captain.”

“I will have to look at that as a positive then,” Megatron replied.

“It seems that Starscream saw it fit to send someone to the Lost Light in search of any answers we may be hiding from their current inquest,” Magnus explained. Then he added, “It would appear the one chosen for the task is Optimus Prime.”

“Of course it is,” Megatron snapped before he could catch himself. “I’ve never known the bot to sidestep an opportunity to dig the blade a little deeper.”

There was a twitch on Magnus’ face, one of the only tells the second in command ever gave when he was irritated or put off by his captain. It was better than most, Megatron supposed.

“It almost makes it appealing to know that we won’t be able to give him what he’s looking for,” Megatron said, glancing back to his reports — still no further updates.

When the silence carried on a moment too long, he glanced back toward Ultra Magnus. There was unease in those robust shoulders.

“Or am I wrong?” Megatron asked.

“We have found… something,” Ultra Magnus answered lowly. “Badly damaged audio from a failed attempt to hail the ship while the signal was being blocked by… _some_ sort of technology more advanced than our own.”

Megatron tilted his helm. “The Black Block Consortia?” he asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ultra Magnus replied, unease continuing to grab at Megatron’s attention. “It _does_ appear Cybertronian in origin. But different. Colonial perhaps, but it is advanced — centuries in advanced to our own.”

Tapping his fingers against his desk, Megatron scowled. “It’s safe to presume such advanced technology would not naturally exist on a colony planet that seems more interested in _trees_ than _electricity.”_

“That would be a safe presumption,” Ultra Magnus answered.

“Alright then, on with it,” Megatron sighed, rubbing at his optics tiredly. “I know there is bad news already, Ultra Magnus. It cannot possibly be worse than what we’ve been going through for the past several hours—“

“You need to listen to this audio. So far only the sound technician and myself have heard the deciphered and cleaned up version,” Ultra Magnus interrupted, _highly_ unusual for him and enough to make Megatron lean back in surprise. “I made certain to bring the only copy to you first. To determine what your course of action will be with it.”

Staring at Ultra Magnus, Megatron allowed the graveness of his second in command’s tone to fully reach him. Then he set aside his reading tablet. “Tenser the audio to me directly. It will be erased as I listen to it so that your copy remains the only one. I trust your judgment — if you deemed it necessary, it _must_ certainly be necessary.”

“I fear it is,” Magnus replied before complying with the demands.

Continuing to look at Magnus suspiciously, Megatron internally accepted the audio file and began to lean back into his chair, listening avidly and even shuttering his optics to keep complete focus on the sounds of their crew. It did not take long into the _May Day_ for the screaming to begin. Then for it to be clear who, in the background of the audio, was making threats. Threats that turned into demands. Demands that turned into pleas. Pleas that turned into screams. Not of pain, but of terror.

Not even halfway done, Megatron stopped the transfer and looked to Magnus. “No one else has heard this other than the sound technician, yourself, and me?” he demanded sharply.

“Yes, Sir,” Magnus answered just as sharply.

“Can you ensure any backups are deleted?” Megatron pressed.

“I will ensure it,” Ultra Magnus nodded. “As for the file?”

“Well,” Megatron said, folding his hands together. “I suppose that entirely depends on determining what side Optimus Prime is playing for when he arrives.”

“Rodimus means a great deal to him,” Ultra Magnus attempted to explain. “I am certain he will be more understanding—“

“He will side with whatever he deems _just_ no matter what friendships it lays bare in its wake,” Megatron corrected. “No one knows Prime more than I do, Ultra Magnus. And you are _not_ to give him that recording until I explicitly give you permission. No matter what threat to your honor that gives you.”

“I understand, Sir,” Magnus said thinly.

“We are the only things protecting Rodimus now,” Megatron reminded him. “Until we know who our allies truly are, this is the way it must be.”

Ultra Magnus nodded stiffly then headed out the door.

Megatron vented angrily before throwing his tablet across the room and shattering it against the adjacent wall, its pieces littering the floor and the smaller, engraved desk that Rodimus had shoved in the corner — co-captain labeled on the top marker.

The former warlord slumped in his chair and rested his helm in his hand. “Damn,” he uttered lowly.


	11. 3.1: The Whispers Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for waiting on this one! We’re on part THREE! All things are coming together, all the different gears are getting turned, and I hope you all enjoy what’s in store because it’s about to get, let’s say, complicated ; ) 
> 
> Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, squiggol, and Isame for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

In a reasonable world – which Cybertron seemed _determined_ to prove it was not – but in a reasonable world, there would have been some sort of system in order that would have given Knock Out the immediate access he deserved for the laboratory he had spent the last several weeks of his life and work in for Starscream.

And _Starscream_  – that was another untrusting blunder within itself. 

If only Knock Out did not find himself so weak for a decent paintjob. He probably would have made certain his arrangements were more permanent. 

Ever since the Lost Light survivors had come through the space bridge, it was a _literal_ struggle each solar cycle to get back into the room and to his research. Most of which had been left _completely_ abandoned by his fellow doctors. 

Honestly, _Breakdown_ would have been more assistance in the lab at that point than the Cybertronians. 

With a long vent, Knock Out threw out his credentials again for the snarling guards and did his best to ignore the way being a colonist was giving him extra looks that most of Cybertron did not. Then he looked, with annoyance, once more to see the galactically famous Ratchet alongside the other doctors busied with the same assortment of bots. 

“Well,” Knock Out drawled out, running his sharpened nails across his desk of untouched research. “What is that idiom I keep hearing about _if you can’t beat them_ …” 

Strolling over to the medical bay, Knock Out earned those funny looks once again, as if it was a Cybertronian thing to always wear one’s faceplate like it was about to fall off, but he was then promptly ignored. 

“Wheeljack, can you give me anything at all that soft-melds to protoform?” Ratchet barked out. “I know it’s out there–”

“ _Was_ out there, Doc,” Wheeljack informed him with an awkward rub of his neck. “Cybertron’s been in short supply of hot spots since before the war. The sort of melding material used to treat sparkling injuries would be basically a lost art.”

“You are the highest scientific mind on Cybertron, and you’re telling me you can’t work something up to suit our needs?” Ratchet asked harshly.

From behind them, one of the awake patients – a blue and yellow jet who Knock Out was unfamiliar with – made a point of waving a hand in the air at them. “Since I’m here on Cybertron now, too, I can actually contest that claim–”

Rounding on the jet without hesitation, Ratchet pointed a thick finger at him. “Brainstorm, you are a _weapons expert._ I’m not going to let you build him into a giant gun. We _already_ have a captain who was a giant gun. I’m not willing to have a second!”

Brainstorm crossed his arms and tilted his helm, looking positively offended. “It’s not _only_ guns. I made an entire _time machine_ out of brief cases, in case you forgot–”

 _“We didn’t!”_ they all said at once. 

The green medic from Caminus that Knock Out hadn’t bothered to learn the name of yet then apathetically patted Brainstorm’s head. “You’ve been stuck on repeat about the briefcase for days now, Brainstorm. It’s time to move on to something else.”

“I know,” Brainstorm grunted, rubbing at his neck tenderly. “I don’t know why, but it’s at the forefront of my brain module.”

“Well, either shut your brain module off again or move it back to thinking about guns, because we don’t have _time_ to waste on this anymore,” Ratchet snapped before looking back to Wheeljack. “Can you whip me something up to help rebuild the protoform layer?” 

“Undoubtedly,” Wheeljack said. “I’m just worried about how the mesh will hold, Ratchet. Injuries this deep and this bad… Well, in the war weren’t they mostly Cold Constructed bodies?”

“I’ve made it work on forged and constructed cold millions of years _before_ the war. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll just be proving to Rodimus again that his tailpipe isn’t shinier than the rest of ours,” Ratchet said with a wave of his hand.

"I just feel like patience would get us along much further,” First Aid encouraged. “The more time we allow for self-healing–”

“The more time Starscream has to weave whatever version of the story he feels like it,” Ratchet interrupted the younger doctor. “Especially since Brainstorm’s questioning was no help.”

“I can’t help what I can’t remember – no one’s driven more crazy by unused brainpower than me, I assure you!” Bainstorm defended.

Having been left out of the intellectual loop for long enough, Knock Out stepped forward toward the CR tank in question, hand on his chin as he hummed slightly to himself. It was a vain attempt at getting the other scientists’ attention, but at the very least it worked. 

Raising a brow, Knock Out looked back at his fellow doctors. “On Velocitron, most every mech is, what do you call them again, ah yes, _forged._ And given the frequency of racing and the dangers that come with it, we get plenty of deep protoformic injuries. As a doctor, I keep protomatter synthesized in my labs. It’s not exact, but it is _nearly_ seamless when worked with the right hands.”

The doctors stared at him for a moment, most seemingly impressed, before turning toward the one face that was _far_ from ecstatic about Knock Out’s explanation. 

Ratchet crossed his arms. “Do you have _access_ to Velocitron at the second?”

Knock Out cycled his optics. “Well, no one has access to the space bridge at the moment–”

“And do you have any of this here?” Ratchet continued harshly.

“Well, no–”

“Then you’re wasting our time and Wheeljack _still_ needs to make some of our own,” Ratchet snapped, then turned to Wheeljack. “Are you going to get me what I need?”

Knock Out couldn’t help but drop his shoulders at being so quickly iced out of the conversation again. He stepped toward the CR chamber to get another look at the half mangled mech inside. “Fine, be that way. I swear, it’s as if you don’t even really want help.”

“I assure you,” a deep voice said from the shadows on the other side of the CR chamber, nearly causing Knock Out to jump back in shock. The quiet swordsmech who had been in the lab since Ratchet’s arrival leered at Knock Out. “We are giving Rodimus all the help he needs.”

“ _You’re_ still here? Tell me, do you bots _ever_ take a recharge?” Knock Out asked. 

The swordsmech’s steely blue gaze merely narrowed at the notion.

“Nevermind,” Knock Out sighed. “Honestly, forget trying to help any of you with these Eukarian casualties.” He strolled toward First Aid. “I’m more interested in the Rust Killers and how our research is going anyway.”

First Aid tilted his head at Knock Out. “Seriously? Knock Out, I haven’t had _any_ time to vent, let alone continue working on that project since the injured came in–”

Having had enough of the social customs, Knock Out dropped his half cocked smile and showed a full scowl toward the doctor. “ _That project?_ Terrorists nearly wiped out your planet and all of the colonies in the Council of Worlds, and it’s just some _side project?”_

“To my oath as a doctor, _everything_ is a side project,” First Aid responded snippishly. 

“What do they teach Cybertronian doctors? The needs of the _few_ outweigh the _many?”_ Knock Out growled. He turned toward the Camien doctor. “And what about on Caminus? Is a doctor’s duty only to those they’re loyal to first and foremost?”

Velocity quickly raised her servos. “I’m not really here to fight. I’m not even working right now. I was just leaving with Brainstorm to meet with the rest of our amicas–”

"Everyone has their own little projects,” Knock Out sighed before walking back toward the door. “If no progress is being actively made on the Red Rust research, then there’s no reason for my brand of genius to be around. Though if you believe the Council of Worlds will continue to sponsor this lab and its experiments without further progress, you have another thing coming.”

First Aid threw up one of his hands. “But you’re _on_ the Council of Worlds.”

“And _I’m_ interested in the Red Rust research,” Knock Out reminded him threateningly. “I’m going to take a nice drive, test my engines and blow off some steam before I reconsider making a report about this misplacement of funds, First Aid. I’ve enjoyed working with you while you’re _on task._ Hopefully we can do that again.”

No one stopped him as he left the room, but of course none of them probably knew a proper retort for the slew of accusations Knock Out had just flung at them. 

After all, his interests in the Red Rust were for his _own_ self interests – that and his conjunx. 

As always with Cybertron, though, there was more than simply their own concerns going on. 

He was in the halls for _maybe_ twenty seconds before Windblade collided into him. 

“Why, I never!” Knock Out ground out, checking his paint job for any scratches. He then leered at the cityspeaker. “Delegate Windblade, if you wish for my attention, use your voice box.”

“Apologies, Knock Out,” she said, mid-vent. “I am in a rush and I _need_ to get to the shipyard before it’s too late.”

“No you don’t!” Chromia called out in pursuit of her delegate. “Windblade, you can’t leave with the Prime–”

Surprised, Knock Out tilted his head at the jet. “I must concur with the bodyguard.”

Unlike with the doctors, his suggestion seemed to at least carry some weight where the cityspeaker was concerned and Windblade stopped in her tracks, looking toward Knock Out. 

“There’s something _bigger_ going on and it involves Optimus Prime directly – you’ve had to have seen the news! If this Error is after the Prime and the Matrix, then there is no reason to send him alone into space–”

“Unless it’s to keep the rest of us safe,” Knock Out said, raising his brow. “You _are_ right, Windblade, in that there is something bigger going out here. And considering I have been approached by Lord Starscream for my scientific knowledge already, I have to say he seems to already understand that perhaps even more than you.”

Her optics narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, _Delegate Windblade_ , it is our job as leaders, as doctors, as mechs of power, to understand when the needs of _many_ outweigh the needs of the _few,”_ Knock Out explained. “And if the danger lies with the Prime, there was probably more than one incentive for Lord Starscream to send him alone into space and away from the citizenry.”

Chromia vented with relief at someone spouting _sensical_ words for once.

But Windblade’s jaw merely squared itself. “The _holy_ and _powerful_ position of the Prime, for many of us – that hope only the Prime’s light can provide? It can squash a whole lot of the _many_ when in the wrong hands, Delegate Knock Out.”

“Maybe,” Knock Out said, crossing his arms. “But are you willing to leave _your_ position here? Let Lord Starscream run the Council of Worlds without you? Alone?”

Windblade’s wings dropped slightly.

“Energon for thought,” Knock Out shrugged before continuing on his way out. “ _Do_ try to make the right decision. For _all_ of us.”

Without further interruptions to his day, Knock Out went for his drive. 

* * *

Ultra Magnus was not sure what gave him more work – when Rodimus was in charge himself, or when he was forcibly co-captaining with Megatron. But there was one thing he was certainly learning under the current fear and unease: Megatron in control of a ship of Autobots, by _himself,_ under highly suspicious circumstances, and _just_ after most of the original crew had mutinied, was the hardest of the three options.

So hard, in fact, that the captain had hardly left his quarters in the last week of disfunction, and their ship had not yet left Eukaris’ airspace as they awaited news of the survivors. 

The former second-in-command should have happily taken charge of their situation. After all, he mostly ran things while Rodimus was the sole captain. But the burden was greater.

There was a burden of knowledge. Of _injustice._

And as the former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, there was quite possibly nothing that caused his fuel tank to turn more in on itself than the idea that he was assisting severe injustice.

Excusing himself from the bridge, not that anyone there was _doing_ anything under their inactive orders, Ultra Magnus walked to the captain’s office and knocked politely once. 

When there was no answer, he sighed and overrode the code to let himself in.

Megatron did not even budge from his desk. 

“I have been making contact with Cybertron over the last week,” Ultra Magnus informed his captain. “The next inbound ship will have Velocity, Brainstorm, one of the other recovered members of the away team, and the others who had departed for Cybertron.” When the former Decepticon did not look up, Ultra Magnus tilted his head. “I assumed you would want to be informed that we were about to have a medical officer again. There have been far too many unattended injuries from barfights without one.”

“Which made me wonder why you had not closed down Swerve’s,” Megatron replied before finally glancing up to Ultra Magnus. 

Ultra Magnus stood in complete attention. “Are you asking me as captain to do that, Sir?” he asked. 

“No, that would elicit more distrust and anger from an already formerly mutinous crew. As well as upset Swerve who is among the few of our group that I trust after that mutiny,” Megatron responded. “Given, he is vocal about his hatred of me, but of course, it’s the _vocation_ of it that makes me trustful.”

“Then that, sir, would by why I have not made any such action yet,” Magnus responded. “We are in a precarious situation.”

“We are,” Megatron agreed, folding his servos together before his face. “We’re having _two_ conversations at the moment, aren’t we, Ultra Magnus?”

“About the crew and about the situation with the recording?” Ultra Magnus asked. “Yes, we are.” He stepped closer to the desk so that more hushed tones could be used by them both. “Have you determined yet who we may trust with the information?”

“I’m not entirely convinced there _is_ anyone to be trusted with it,” Megatron replied briskly, optics flickering in Magnus’ direction. Their steady redness was deep, calculating. As sharp as ever. “We may need to discuss with Ratchet, either directly or indirectly, and bring him in. If he understands the enormity, he would understand the need to move Rodimus onto the Lost Light for the rest of his recovery. He needs to explain what happened to us directly. Having him on Cybertron, having only half the information, it makes everyone at risk.”

“Agreed,” Ultra Magnus said. “Velocity’s arrival may give us that direct link to Ratchet we need. It would require _more_ time without a medic in the long term, unfortunately, but you are not allowed on Cybertron and I am not comfortable abandoning my post by you under the current climate.”

Megatron nodded slowly in agreement. “We have to move quickly.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Ultra Magnus vented loudly.

Tilting his helm suspiciously, Megatron glared at Magnus. “What? What is it?” 

“We may need to move quicker than originally planned, Sir,” Magnus explained reluctantly. “I came in here because the same ship which is carrying crew members back from Cybertron has… another passenger.”

“What?” Megatron demanded. He gritted his denta and shook his head. “Damn Starscream.” He looked back to Magnus. “Who did he send?”

“This is where we may find a silver lining,” Ultra Magnus attempted to break the news easily. “It is someone who is going to be on Rodimus’ side, and our side if we can appeal to him.” 

Undeterred, Megatron narrowed his optics. “Who did he send, Magnus?”

Venting again, Ultra Magnus answered, “Optimus Prime is inbound for the Lost Light.”

At first, Megatron sat in his seat patiently. Only his tapping finger on the desk gave any testament to the rage building up inside. 

“I may need my office to myself for a moment, Ultra Magnus. Please be the one to greet the Prime upon his arrival,” Megatron said formally. 

Already on his way out, Ultra Magnus did not bother to look back even at the sound of a fist going through a metal table. “It will be my pleasure, Captain.”

* * *

"Rattrap, I need to know where these cultists are in _my_ city.”

Lord Starscream had not needed to speak twice for Rattrap to know what his role was – what his _usual_ role was. He was, after all, the rat in every wall throughout Metroplex. He had his optics and audial receptors set everywhere. 

There were the usuals that Starscream wanted close watch on, knowing the comings and goings. Any of the delegates from the Council of Worlds, and _especially_ Windblade and her ever present bodyguard. 

Citizens of Cybertron in high concern were also Blurr and Ironhide, any of the most outspoken against Starscream’s rule. He _especially_ wanted attention paid to the disgruntled former Decepticons in the slums. Of those he watched, though, Rattrap found the most interest in Blurr’s bar. 

 _When_ Rattrap could manage to be one step ahead of Blurr and not be bounced from the establishment, of course. A most difficult thing considering the speedster’s famous quick feet. 

But lately there had been higher priorities that Rattrap found himself concerned with. 

There was Optimus Prime and his crew, the followers of the Primal religion who flocked to him. The former Lost Light crew trying to integrate to the Cybertron they formerly had rejected, and more. 

As a spymaster of sorts, Rattrap was finding his work cut out for him. 

And the cult – this Error and his followers – were such a nonentity for the most part that each day passed without so much as a sign breathed about them other than the general fear. 

They were getting dangerously close to Starscream’s plan of rounding up any and all bots with a red and black paintjob becoming a reality. Whispers of it were to the point that every paint shop and body work house in the city were booked for weeks. 

Rattrap needed to find information. Whether he got the credit for it or not, he was one of the pillars keeping their crumbling society from utterly collapsing. 

Then, slowly, it came to Rattrap’s attention that of all his rounds searching the city, he had yet to check the depths – Metroplex’s underground and the very energon rivers that Starscream himself had tapped into before. 

“Well, if there’s not anything up here, it’s _gotta_ be down _there,_ right?” Rattrap asked himself, heading toward the nearest underground entrance. 

At first, his hunch yielded little. 

The reservoirs of energon, both used and unused, were weak and diluted, which at least made travel somewhat easier. Especially in Rattrap’s beastmode. 

He was nearly ready to give up on the idea entirely when he began to hear hushed tones from one of the less populated, and thus less energon flowing, districts’ pipelines. 

Suspicious, he followed the noise along the pipes, the vibrations riding up his limbs as he walked across the pipes and toward the constant rumble. Until those rumbles became words, low and distant. Then louder.

The closer he came, the more Rattrap was put in mind of an old sermon in the days before the War. Words about the Primes and Primus and things that Rattrap had hardly given consideration then and _certainly_ had grown some skepticism toward these days. 

And he worked for a genuine _Chosen One._

After what felt like hours of travel, Rattrap finally came to where the rumbles became words he could make out, and a soft glow of fire light gave him warning for what was around the corner. 

“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. 

“Primus’ Hand has guided us to this point,” a deep voice, unmistakably the same a the mech who had multiple times at that point taken over on the airways. “His fire has lit the way, and it has showed us his chosen vessel. Fire cleanses this world and all others which owe Primus its domain. And it shall soon judge those who have come forth as false Primes. As _nonbelievers._ As _unworthy._ And it will be with your assistance, with your sacrifices, that Primus’ will shall be done.”

There were cries and screams of desperate jubilation in response. 

“Well, scrap,” Rattrap muttered quietly to himself. “Just my luck. I missed the descriptive part of the meeting and made it in time for preaching to the choir.” 

“And we shall start now,” the voice continued – deeper, louder. “By lighting a fire to destroy those who would put our work in danger.” 

Rattrap tilted his helm at that just before the light grew brighter from around the corner and then, suddenly, he saw the trickles of energon that were in that corridor begin to spark with an unsettling light.

“Oh, damn!” Rattrap cried out, realizing what was happening and turning to race away just as the sounds of roaring flames began coming his way. 

"Well isn’t this just a rotten way to go!” Rattrap cried out somewhat hysterically as he could feel the flames licking at his tail and back paws. Then there was the tell-tale crackle of the energon reservoirs catching fire. 

Despite imminent death, Rattrap leaped uselessly in an attempt to race ahead of the upcoming explosion. His cries echoed nearly as loud as the boom to follow. 

But before his body burned and his spark extinguished, he turned off his optics. 

It kept him from seeing whoever it was that grabbed him, hard, almost like a collision. It nearly knocked the steam out of him before darting through the air, its coolness rushing over Rattrap’s beastform in comparison to the growing heat they were leaving behind. 

His spark was still skipping pulses as it all came to a stop and he realized that the explosions were a great distance away from wherever he was currently.

“I’m alive,” he said, cycling on his optics as he was gently laid on the ground and allowed to transform back into botmode. “I’m alive! Oh sweet Primus!”

“I told you, this was an interference that was supposed to happen. It was a _good_ thing, calm down, Prime.”

Recognizing the voice immediately, Rattrap turned around to face his savior. “Windblade? But you were at the capital and–” he paused, looking over the jet curiously. Her paintjob was different, and there was something different about the decorations of her faceplate. And there was no other color but black and red. “What the…”

“I still think this is a mistake,” a second mech said, drawing Rattrap’s attention to him. “Even if Rattrap is supposed to be around later… does he _have_ to be? He never made my life any easier after all this. Or yours.”

Rattrap looked at the mech in shock. Like Windblade, the paint was different, even the build was different in little details that amounted more and more the longer Rattrap stared. 

But beyond the black and red and the increased size, there was no mistaking it.

“Rodimus?” Rattrap asked, optics wide. “But you’re in the CR chamber.”

A displeased look grew on the mech’s face and Windblade gave a little vent. 

“And this is where our job is about to get very complicated,” she said toward Rodimus. 


	12. 3.2: Steep Accusations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agghhhh this was supposed to come out Friday, but I’m LAZY and I apologize so much for the wait <3 
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, @secretlystephaniebrown, and squiggol for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part III: The Risk of Saving the Guilty  
Chapter 3.2: Steep Accusations**

Velocity, like all Camiens, had been accustomed to worship of the Primes. These distant, mythological figures who were chosen by Primus to guide all mech, to open their spark to the Matrix and provide a guiding light to them all. 

She had, especially of her sorority, always been the more secular of the girls, especially if one did not account for Firestar’s self absorption. Velocity had never been precisely a skeptic or non-believer on the levels she had seen over the months being exposed to Ratchet’s tutelage, but the reality of a Prime was always so distant from her day to day life. 

One thing she never _dreamed_ of was riding in a shuttle beside the Prime himself. 

The very real, very solemn, very _intimidating_ Prime. 

His very presence smothered what otherwise would have probably been joyous reunification between her and her group of Amicas. 

Alongside her, Nautica seemed utterly starstruck by the Prime’s presence, unusually quiet and teetering on pure nervousness. _So_ unlike her. 

Their Cybertronian Amicas and other friends did not share the quiet awe, but they were all visibly uncomfortable, from Brainstorm’s nervous chatter to Nightbeat’s suspicious leering in Optimus Prime’s direction.

Chromedome was flying their shuttle, Rewind by his side as always. But the minibot was downright furious – his field was vibrating with it. Their reactions to the Prime’s presence on the ship was… curious and mostly an outlier. 

The Prime was unreadably stoic from his seat. 

“So what are the odds, given he was part of the mutiny, that Perceptor would allow me to design something _briefcase shaped_ but under supervision as always?” Brainstorm asked, stroking his faceplate’s chin. “I’m thinking it’s in the twenty to thirty percent possible.”

“You’re being far too generous,” Nightbeat informed him. “I’d put it at a zero. I think briefcases are out of the question at this point in your scientific career.”

Brainstorm let out a frustrated noise and grabbed the sides of his helm. “But it’s the only thing I have on my processor since I woke up!”

“Hm,” Nightbeat said, bringing his own hand to his chin. 

Velocity looked at him curiously. He had been unusually quiet since the upset at Eukaris first broke news across their crew. It was very unlike Nightbeat, and even more than that it was most likely because he was trying to untangle some connections he was making. Though, Velocity couldn’t imagine for the life of her how he had enough information to figure _anything_ out yet.

Nautica was hugging her arms before taking a deep vent and pulling her gaze away from the Prime as best she could. Instead she looked to Velocity. 

“Velocity, you got to spend more time in the medical ward while we were on Cybertron,” Nautica stated. 

“Yes,” Velocity agreed, somewhat confused by the subject.

“Did you see Windblade and Chromia at all?” she asked hopefully.

“I did,” Velocity said. “Though, not much. They seemed to mostly be looking for answers and checking the tensions in the room. With it being an interplanetary incident and all, I’m pretty sure they were figuring out political stuff more than come in for a visit.”

A somewhat disappointed frown came to Nautica’s face. “I guess Windblade always _did_ dive headfirst into anything she was involved in, didn’t she? That’s a shame. I’ve always had a hard time of holding a high opinion of politicians.”

“Everything’s a little political at the end of the day,” Velocity observed. 

“And the patients?” Nautica asked. “I mean, Brainstorm’s doing better – processor damage or not.”

“Who said anything about damage?” Brainstorm huffed defensively. 

“So the others have a good chance thanks to your all’s hands, right?” Nautica pressed. 

Velocity rubbed at her shoulder. “That’s difficult to really answer, Nautica. You’re dealing with different injuries, and I didn’t have a direct hand with _everyone_ in the ward. I barely got to more than watch over Rodimus’ CR chamber while we were there and all.”

“But you could read his charts, right?” Nautica asked. “When do they think he’ll wake up?”

Surprised by the curious looks all of her friends were giving her, Velocity realized that they really _didn’t_ grasp the state of their co-captain’s hospitalization. 

“Oh, gosh. Everyone, it’s not….” Velocity paused and gathered her thoughts. “Rodimus isn’t going to wake up until they decide to take him off of sedation. His coma is medically induced until they can figure out a way to reconstruct his bareframe over his protoform again. A lot of his natural physiology is _melted_ and will require lots of reconstruction. It’s beyond natural mending abilities.”

“That sounds horrible,” Nautica said, placing a hand over her intake.

“I’d be completely lost on what to do if it was my case alone,” Velocity admitted. “Fortunately First Aid and Ratchet are on it. And they’re… It’s amazing. I’ve never seen some of the procedures they would use while working on Rodimus. I mean, First Aid alone revived Rodimus’ spark on the brink of offlining – when it was the size of pinprick!” She then hesitated, recalling the enormity of those moments and glancing toward Optimus Prime. O-of course they were using the Prime’s help at the time. I even saw the Matrix itself once.”

Nightbeat and Brainstorm seemed intrigued but not nearly as impressed as Nautica, who looked to the Prime with complete awe. 

Velocity wondered if their similar religious upbringing brought the same subtle fears and amazement to her friend as they did to her.

It was difficult sitting in the same ship as a religious figure.

“I really got to put into perspective my position as a new doctor while in that room, though,” Velocity announced, steepling her fingers. “I worked so hard for all those years to make it through medical school and then through the exams. Even at my proudest moment, I had always assumed mediocrity for myself in my field. But the Lost Light – learning under _First Aid and Ratchet_. They do laps around the mentors I’ve had for all these years. Their _application_ has taught me more than all the books I’m still in debt paying off during school. I am _beyond_ fortunate. And our captain is beyond fortunate to have them on his team, keeping him in the best care possible.”

Nautica nodded. 

Brainstorm and Nightbeat were unusually quiet for themselves. 

“Is there anything else you want to know?” Velocity asked. “If not, I’d love to hear about the sights on Cybertron you all got to visit while I was cooped up. The growth of the city is something to behold! Each time we stop there, no matter what crisis has happened in the time between, they’ve managed to do so much and grow in population _and_ structures.”

“There’s a civilian-ran research facility–” Brainstorm began, eyes shining with excitement. “It’s the first time I’ve thought there could actually be something Cybertron could offer if the Lost Light ever docks back–”

“If I may interrupt…”

At that booming voice, Velocity felt ready to leap out of her own frame. She turned and looked in shock to the Prime. _He was looking right at them!_

Nautica actually _squeaked._

The Prime continued staring at them. “I overheard one of you telling Chromedome and Rewind about modifications to the hyperdrive of this shuttle someone made. That was one of you, correct?”

At once, Velocity joined the others in looking toward their resident quantum mechanic. 

“I…” Nautica began before coughing into her fist. “That would be me, Prime. Sir. Mister Prime….”

“I am called Optimus by my friends,” he assured her.

“I… Yes, Prime,” she said before burying her face in her hands. “I can’t be seen if I’m hiding. No one can see me. This is worse than being upside down.”

Velocity, uncertain of what else to do, reached forward and gently patted her friend’s shoulders while the socially awkward submarine flailed in the proverbial waters of social engagement. 

“Those are impressive enhancements to such a small vessel,” Optimus Prime said gently. “I would like to put you in contact with the scientist of my own crew – Jetfire. I believe the two of you would get along very well by comparing notes. And having a quantum drive on our own ship could make travel between Earth and Cybertron without a space bridge more possible.”

“Oh…” Nautica said, dropping her hands slightly. “Oh! I mean. _Oh!_ Yes. Yes, it would be an honor to help the Prime and his crew. I’m honored. I’m–”

“We would also cover your expenses in doing so,” the Prime continued. “I am not in a habit of not rewarding others for their work, even if they are religious.”

“That is even better,” Nautica responded without thinking. Then she smacked herself in the head. “Oh my god, what’s wrong with me – what I _mean_ to say is that it would be, _I_ would be, you don’t have to…” 

“Vent, Nautica,” Velocity whispered.

Doing as instructed, Nautica vented pure steam. “Thank you, Optimus Prime. I am very grateful.”

“Better,” Velocity whispered with an encouraging smile. 

“I will be the one thanking you, I am certain,” he replied, looking back toward the bow of the ship. “Both for the assistance and for helping change the subject of conversation.”

The ship grew uncomfortably quiet after the Prime’s pronouncement. Nautica in particular looked like her fuel tank was expiring before their eyes. 

Velocity did her best to swallow down her own feelings of intimidation and stepped toward the Prime. She hesitated at first, but then gently placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing the large mech’s attention toward her. 

“We really appreciate everything you did to help our co-captain, Sir,” Velocity said. “The medical procedures were a success thanks to your very spark.”

At first, the Prime seemed almost surprised by her and, for a moment, Velocity was worried that perhaps she overstepped by touching him. But his optics grew soft and he glanced back ahead to the front of the ship. It allowed Velocity to quietly withdraw her hand and hold it as if some of the Primacy had rubbed off on it.

“There has been a lot more that I could have done,” the Prime said lowly.

It was a flat statement, not open for discussion. And, thoroughly intimidated and questioning what had gotten into her processor, Velocity backed off. 

She was _just_ close enough to hear lowly as the Prime shook his head and muttered, “Co-captain,” like it was a curse. A regret. _Something._

The rest of the trip was stiflingly uneventful.

* * *

Cybertronians were a famously durable species. 

Drift remembered his own rebirth among the Knights, when he had been saved by Wing. He had been ripped assunder, and yet with the barest medical care available at the Crystal City, he was given a new body, a new life. 

Rodimus had the greatest scientific minds Cybertron had to offer working on him. 

_But he still wasn’t awake._

Hands always dancing over the hilts of his swords, always prepared to protect his captain at the slightest sign of danger, Drift had to wonder _why._ Why wasn’t Rodimus awake yet.

He knew what Rodimus’ destiny was, he _knew_ that the future of Cybertron, of their crew, needed him more than anything else. That his explicit, confusing visions needed him to survive any trial their journey threw at them. 

Including this. _Certainly_ including this. 

“Drift.”

Cycling his optics, Drift turned and looked toward Ratchet. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t even realized that the old grump of a robot had been finished yelling at his fellow doctors. 

“We’re done for the day,” Ratchet said, continuing to walk toward him. “Grab some of your stuff and come with me to Blurr’s. Get some decent energon in your system while we’re off the clock. First Aid _assures_ me he has everything handled here for the night.”

Not making any motions to move on the suggestion, Drift rested his hands on the hilts of his swords. 

“You deserve a break,” Drift agreed. “You’ve done so much, so tirelessly, Ratchet. I can’t thank you enough. But _I_ do not have a clock. I have a duty, and it does not take breaks for energon.”

Ratchet’s face showed that he was anything but impressed. Drift had to give it to him, he was a mech who wore his emotions with clarity. 

“You’ve got _nothing_ but a security pass I wrestled out of that piece of scrap Rattrap’s hand for you,” Ratchet reminded him. “He’s not in danger anymore – and he’s mostly out of the woods, as they said on Earth.”

Frowning, Drift looked back at the CR chamber. “He’s going to need someone – someone _not_ with a medical degree – with him when he wakes up. When he sees… when he sees the damage.”

For once, Ratchet seemed to drop the snark from his reaction. “Well, his coma at this point is medically induced. He’s not waking up until we’re ready for him to,” the medic explained in what, for him, passed for _gently._ “So I think you can go out for a drink.”

Drift actually turned from Ratchet at that. 

He _was_ exhausted… 

"I trust First Aid and the other doctors,” Drift said. “ _Medically._ But as far as protection goes, I believe my place is still here–”

“Oh, for the love of…” Ratchet said, throwing his servos up in the air. “I _knew_ you were going to be like this.”

“Like…?” Drift said, tilting his helm.

“Like a dunce with a second rate processor,” Ratchet snapped before waving to the doors of the lab as they slid open and Ironhide and the bodyguard he met before known as Chromia came walking in. “I called backup for you.”

Drift vented, feeling himself cool almost immediately with relief. 

It was better. His nerves were shot and the idea of leaving Rodimus’ side at all still unsettled his fuel pump, but it was _better._ He could manage it – for a short amount of time. 

“Thank you,” Drift said to Ratchet. “For understanding my obligation–”

“Yeah, yeah, you _should_ thank me,” Ratchet said with a wave of hi hand. “Can we get some energon or not?”

Drift frowned some and glanced back toward Ironhide and Chromia before stepping toward them, eyeing them from helm to pede. He ignored Ratchet’s “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding,” from behind him and concentrated on the bots before him instead. 

“You’re going to assure me that any threat to Rodimus will be handled by you personally?” Drift asked them clearly. 

“If a threat comes up, between the two of us it ain’t got a chance,” Ironhide said firmly. 

Chromia was a little more suspicious. “Has there been any attempts made on him? Or threats–”

“The threat that put him in that CR Chamber to begin with,” Drift responded snappislhly. 

” _Drift!”_ Ratchet snapped from over his shoulder. “Move your tailpipe. They’ve got this.”

Drift let out a heavy vent and offered his servo out to Chromia .”Thank you for your time and service.”

“Not a problem,” Chromia assured him, taking his hand and shaking it. “Windblade was happy to get rid of me for the night. As usual.”

Before Drift could turn to tell Ratchet he was ready, the lab door opened yet again. 

Somehow, in the building relief Drift had been allowing in his system, he had not even made a move for his swords when he heard the doors. He hadn’t been prepared for the worst possibilities for the first time in months. 

He let his guard down, and was taken aback by the arrival of Starscream, that traitorous Rattrap, and the official badgeless Cybertronian guards. 

“How convenient, finding everyone in one spot,” Starascream said darkly as he neared the medbay. His optics then concentrated on Rodimus’ CR chamber. He seemed displeased. “Rattrap, your story doesn’t seem to be adding up right now.”

Drift moved for his swords, but the gards raised their guns. 

It was a standoff. 

“What’s the meaning of this!?” Ratchet demanded. “You want talk on your research, Starscream, go find First Aid or Knock Out. But don’t bring armed _goons_ into a place of healing–”

“It was him, Lord Starscream. There’s no doubts about it!” Rattrap declared by Starscream’s side. “And just look! These guys’re here… but sure don’t see any Windblade, do ya?”

Starscream almost looked delighted to have the point made out for him. He shifted his gaze to Chromia. “Ah, yes, where _is_ our favorite cityspeaker?”

“Recharging,” Chromia spat out. “What’re you doing here, Starscream?”

“To prove once and for all that Rodimus is faking his injuries and is guilty of collusion with our greatest modern threat to Cybertronian society,” Starscream answered as if it was the simplest statement in the world. 

“What the pit are you talking about?” Ratchet demanded. He waved toward the CR chamber. “We’ve had him put under for _weeks!”_

“Then what was he doing downtown in the sewers just an hour ago?” Rattrap asked, as if he really ‘had’ them.

“That’s impossible,” Drift hissed. “I have been here every _second_ since he was put in intensive care. He’s not so much as flinched on his own!”

“And I was with Windblade an hour ago,” Chromia defended. 

“You’ll have to forgive me for not taking your words for more than face value,” Starascream said dismissively before waving to his guards. “Open up the CR chamber. I want this cleared up _yesterday.”_

The guards took one step forward and Drift moved fast, slicing through each of their guns with his sword before the guards could even react. They looked at each other in shock and confusion while Drift held out his sword in an attempt to show the supposed leader of Cybertron just how serious he was. 

“You have no right to attack a wounded warrior!” Drift declared angrily. 

“I have any right I want,” Starscream said cockily. “But what right I have or don’t have is not of importance here. What’s of importance is that if we have truly caught Rodimus in a lie, then we are a step closer to understanding who attacked the mechs on Eukaris and what insider has been responsible for leaking information to the cltists.”

“What in the frag are you talking about!?” Ratchet cried out. 

“I think you understand perfectly what I’m saying,” Starscream announced. “I am formally accusing Rodimus , former Autobot, former captai nof the Lost Light vessel, is responsible for the death and carnage that befell Eukaris and his crew. I am _accusing_ your former captain of assault and murder. Not to mention _traitorism._ The last charge goes for Windbalde as well.”

Everyone stared at the mad king in shock. 

* * *

It was not exactly _predictable_ that the captain himself was not there to greet them at the shuttle, but it managed to put Optimus even more on alarm than he already was. 

Megatron wanted to make the encounter more challenging, then so be it.

He exited the ship looking all around the dock before finally settling on Ultra Magnus. 

“I hope the trip was decent,” Ultra Magnus said immediately. 

“You have a good crew if this group is anything to judge by,” Optimus said assuredly, earning some looks from his recent travel companions. “If not… easily lead into conversation.”

“We consider that a hallmark of the Lost Light,” Ultra Magnus said somewhat lightly. 

Optimus Prime had heard rumors of Ultra Magnus’ new leaf – at his attempts to provide levity and humor. It was hard to believe. And in his actual presence, it was difficult to determine if it was that kind of situation or not.

“I need to speak with Megatron,” Optimus continued all the same. “Of course, I’m sure he knew that when he sent you.”

“I do my bet to not make assumptions on my higher commands’ intentions,” Ultra Magnus answered before leading and waving toward the nearest corridor. “But I _am_ here to lead you to his office if you are interested in speaking with him yourself.”

“I am,” Optimus answered, stepping forward and all but marching toward the office Ultra Magnus was directing him to. 

Beyond the brief exchange, there was not much conversation between them. It was unusual for Ultra Magnus – especially to not at least be asking about the status of the crew recovering on Cybertron. 

That all but cemented in Optimus’ mind that there was something on the Lost Light that was being kept a secret. And _that_ just made the Prime more determined to learn it for himself. 

When he opened the door to the office, Megatron wasn’t even pretending to not be waiting on him. He was merely sitting at his desk – hands crossed over a very distinct dent in the shape of a fist. 

“Megatron,” Optimus said, ignoring as Ultra Magnus entered after him and shut the door. 

"Prime,” Megatron said thinly. 

“Your ship has not been compliant with the Council of Worlds’ investigations to what occurred on Eukaris,” Optimus said angrily. “It also has yet to leave Eukaris’ airspace.”

Megatron remained stonefaced throughout the accusations. “I was not aware that the colony had any space program to speak of. Our Eukarian crew members did not mention as much–”

“Your mission to find the Knights of Cybertron is being stalled,” Optimus got to the point.

 _That_ declaration shook something loose from Megatron as he finally reacted. His look darkened and he unfolded his hands to grip the edges of his desk. “Of course it is stalled. Members of my crew, including my co-captain, have been attacked and hospitalized. We are waiting for the crew to–”

“You are postponing your trial through distractions,” Optimus snapped. “I know who you are, Megatron. I know what you are _about._ And there is very little you do without reason or planning.”

“Our mission is not moving forward without our co-captain,” Megatron said fiercely. “That is _all_ , Prime.”

“You are _the_ captain,” Optimus said firmly. “I made you such. You can do whatever you want without Rodimus’ input–”

“I could, and I wouldn’t!” Megatron yelled, getting to his feet and slamming his hands against the desk. “You do not understand _anything,_ Optimus. You may think you do, but you don’t.”

“I understand that the less you do to help Starscream, the more reason he has to throw you and every member of your crew into jail, taking this ship, and cutting off financial support to the medical center in the capital that holds your crew,” Optimus bantered. “I understand you might just be selfish enough to risk it.”

“Selfish!?” Megatron laughed, a thunderous disturbing laugh that Optimus had not heard in years. “You don’t know the meaning of the word–”

“Enough,” Ultra Magnus stepped in between them, even going so far as to put a firm hand on Optimus’ chest to keep him and Megatron at arm’s length from each other. “This is not productive. We all share the same concern.”

“Do we?” Optimus asked dryly, reconcentrating on Megatron. “Do you understand what this all is looking like to those on Cybertron? That it seems as though you are making a coup against what Autobots are left on the ship who are _not_ loyal to you? That you’re no longer looking for the Knights but are attacking an underdeveloped colony for invasion?”

"Is that all?” Megatron asked. “Really, Optimus? After the eons I spent determining near perfect ways of assimilating and overthrowing worlds at a time, you think that I am in charge of _this_ series of disastrous events?”

“You and disastrous events are seldom mutually exclusive,” Optimus argued. “And it is not what _I_ think, it is what Cybertron, the Council and–”

“ _Starscream,_ ” Megatron interrupted, “does not believe I am responsible for anything at the moment because he knows my approach better than anyone. I _taught_ him his ruthlessness, to my eternal dismay. If he sent you here with that impression then you are more of a fool than had ever realized.”

Optimus narrowed his optics. “Then what _does_ Starscream think? _Enlighten_ me,” he demanded. 

A look was shared between Ultra Magnus and Megatron that left Optimus feeling highly uncomfortable. The shared understanding between them was not something Optimus ever expected to see, even when he put Megatron in charge of the ship knowing Magnus’ fealty to the chain of command. 

They _knew_ something.

“If you have anything–” Optimus began. 

“He could get the information to Ratchet even more quickly than Velocity, and we would not be without a medic,” Ultra Magnus argued on the part of a side Optimus was not even aware he was on.

“This has the potential to be the greatest of mistakes either of us has made,” Megatron said darkly. 

Suddenly, Optimus felt dwarfed by the momentum of their conversation, lost in the lack of information. “Who does Starscream believe is responsible?” he pressed.

Megatron stared at Optimus once more like he was the true enemy. 

“Rodimus,” he answered finally.

“Rodimus?” Optimus repeated. “But how? He’s the most damaged of the survivors – I helped restart his spark three times–”

The former Decepticon was not listening to him anymore, reaching toward his gauntlet and producing a drive. 

“What is that?” Optimus asked suspiciously.

“Your answers,” Megatron said flatly. “The ones you don’t want.”

Still steeped in suspicion, Optimus accepted the drive and looked to Ultra Magnus instead. “What is he talking about?”

“That drive contains the saved audial logs that we were finally able to decode from the Lost Light’s emergency frequency,” Ultra Magnus explained. “They are from Rodimus’ away team during the incident.” The law abiding looked at him gravely. “We need to see these make their way safely to Ratchet and to Rung.”

Optimus tilted his helm. “Rung?”

“Our former ship psychoanalyst,” Megatron answered, still holding out the drive. “He… retired himself recently, but under my order he stayed on Cybertron after traveling with your recent companions.”

Idly, Optimus _somewhat_ remembered an orange mech receiving hugs shortly before their departure. 

“Other than them, we have not allowed anyone to listen to the recording,” Ultra Magnus explained further.

“Why?” Optimus demanded immediately. 

Neither answered. 

“I suppose you do not wish for _me_ to listen to them either,” Optimus surmised. 

“Do you trust Rodimus?” Megaton asked.

“Excuse me?” Optimus asked, thrown off guard.

Megatron did not so much as flinch. “Do you trust Rodimus? Do you wish to assist him? Or is he yet another acolyte to sacrifice for the greater good?”

“ _You_ of all mechs have no right to say such things against _my_ character, Megatron,” Optimus argued angrily. 

“I don’t disagree,” Megatron replied. “I am old, old enough that I question if change is truly possible for any of us. In a sense of irony, our species seems particularly inept at _change._ But if there is anything that has led me to change it is that I find myself concerned for this ship, this crew. Rodimus is more than simply my crew, he is my co-captain. We have survived and led together through what we previously thought was the ship’s darkest hours. And without him there is zero possibility that I can lead this ship. Ultra Magnus and Perceptor have taken over most of the command duties. I am without power – power to command, power to help those I consider… my friends.” 

Still, Megatron held out the drive. 

Optimus took it. “I take care of my friends as well,” he assured them both. “But I _will_ be listening to this recording myself. I want to know what I am protecting them from.”

“Of course you will,” Megatron said with only slight disgust as he glanced toward the opposing wall.

Confused, Optimus looked to Magnus who seemed equally disheartened. 

“You will be protecting Rodimus from _himself,_ Sir,” Ultra Magnus revealed. 


	13. 3.3 Speaking with Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd time for stuff to hit the fan : ) ) ) )
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, @secretlystephaniebrown and squiggol for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part III: The Risk of Saving the Guilty  
Chapter 3.3: Speaking with Guilt**

Windblade should have been relieved to have been ‘escorted’ by Starscream’s personal guard to his private chambers rather than the detention center. _Should_ have been. But she was far from it. 

She did not exactly take kindly to being put in handcuffs while in public. 

“Stascream!” she spat out the moment she saw him over by the balcony. He didn’t even have the decency to be turned to face her. “What he _Pit_ is the meaning of this? You had me _arrested!_ And you did so while I was in _public!_ I never took you for such _transparent_ dictatorship.”

“You’ve never paid that much attention then,” Stascream said flatly, half turning toward her. With a nod, he sent the guards away. 

“You think this is all fun and games?” Windblade all but snarled, uselessly testing the restraints for what she already knew would happen. A slight shock tested her system and she flinched back despite herself.

“I do not,” Starscream said, fully tuning toward her and walking closer. “That is why, the moment Knock Out confirms that the stasis and medically induced coma are simply a ploy, I will have your partner in this conspiracy of betrayal arrested along with you.”

Positively confused, Windblade tilted her helm back. A slightly irrational fear took over her for all of her friends. “What are you _talking about,_ Starscream?” she demanded. “Have you absolutely fried your circuits? _What_ conspiracy? _What_ betrayal?”

His optics narrowed to red, intimidating slits. “You can’t play dumb with me, Windblade. I know about the cult. I know about you and Rodimus working for Error.”

At that, Windblade had to actually cycle her optics. She had not been sure _what_ Starscream had meant before, but she _certainly_ had not expected the complete nonsense she got. 

“Excuse me… _what?”_ she asked, baffled.

“You heard me, Windblade,” Starscream said the utmost seriousness. “I know that you are involved with the cult. I know that Rodimus is faking his injuries. And I know that all of this is somehow to undermine my rule of Cybertron. Entrapment perhaps? How clever. _Unfortunately_ for you, I learned of your deceit and can act first.”

She stared at him, still processing all the accusations flung her way before she reached up and rubbed the side of her faceplate as best she could with the handcuffs. 

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ she repeated. “Starscream, I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about? What evidence do you have of… _any_ of this?”

“A live witness, despite your leader’s greatest efforts to keep him from being that way,” Starscream said smoothly. “I suppose your conscience got to you in the last minute. A pity. I genuinely was not onto either of you until you made that misstep of trusting Rattrap to keep your secret, Windblade. Maybe you thought you could earn his trust, get him on whatever twisted side Error has concocted to entice you into the cult.” He smirked at her knowingly. “I never had to concern myself with such things, neither trusting anyone else so much nor worrying about a conscience. Well… for the most part. Until _recently.”_

Windblade stared at him like he was mad – and, perhaps, he _was._

“Starscream, I am not working with Error or the cult,” Windblade said firmly. “And if you believe I am _on Rattrap’s word,_ then you _are_ trusting someone and it _is_ making you out to be the fool. I am sorry to tell you.”

“You think you’re so clever,” Starscream snapped. “The problem is, Cityspeaker, that the reason you have to be so nosy is because while you’re playing the game, you’ve never _once_ managed to get out ahead.”

“I don’t think I’m clever,” Windblade admitted before motioning toward the hall door. “But I think it doesn’t take a clever person to know that there is _no_ faking what Rodimus’ injuries or stasis are. And Rattrap’s going to have you look like an idiot in front of everyone in this building the moment Knock Out comes up here and tells you that himself.”

"Rattrap knows better than to speak falsely to me,” Starscream said without concern. 

“You two are certainly a pair,” Windblade grouched when the doors opened behind her and in came Knock Out and Rattrap themselves. 

“We should be getting a second opinion here! From someone who’s obviously not biased!” Rattrap was crying out hysterically.

Windblade could not help the smile that formed on her faceplate as she glanced toward Starscream and saw his own confidence melt from him. 

“Bias?” Knock Out scoffed. “I have no bias – I could care _less_ about the internal affairs of Cybertron. I owe nothing to these bots. That is why Lord Starscream asked for my opinion to begin with.”

Starscream leered at them. “What is going on here?” he demanded. 

“I’m afraid we’ve been duped, Chosen One,” Knock Out said wryly. “There is absolutely no doubt in my processor that the patient there is in stasis and, beyond that, with the extent of the injuries and the incapacity of his proto-healing, there is no way he has left that chamber in at _least_ the last forty-eight hours.”

There was an immediate rage that radiated from Starscream. Windblade could not help the satisfaction she somewhat felt at it.

“Don’t believe a word of it, Lord Starscream!” Rattrap cried out. “I saw it with my own optics – look at the singe on my armor!!! And everyone knows that Rodimus has that outlier ability – with the flames? It’s the cult’s main way of attack.”

Her attention to detail not failing her, Windblade honed in on the information about Rodimus and looked at Rattrap with scrutiny. “Outlier ability–”

Without warning, the power to the restraints on Windblade were cut and she looked back to Starscream with surprise. 

“Delegates,” he said firmly, “I will have to ask you to leave my chambers. I need to deal with a personal matter with my good _friend_ here.”

Windblade and Knock Out glanced toward each other before following suit, to the crying objections of Rattrap.

* * *

They had waited for Swerve to all but clear out the bar for them – a favor in mutual understanding and debt to Skids. 

Their gathering was small, but most importantly it was away from prying optics and audials. 

“Okay, Brainstorm, spill what you know,” Nautica demanded, hands on her hips. “We’ve been placating your amnesiac answers since we got to Cybertron. We’re your Amicas. We deserve the truth. We deserve to be able to help you.”

Brainstorm had suspected it would come to this rather quickly. Still, he hadn’t expected it to quite be _that_ quickly. He was cornered by Velocity and Nautica with no escape routes and not even a Swerve to pry.

Camiens didn’t know how to play fair.

“What makes you think I wasn’t telling you everything from the start?” Brainstorm asked, tilting his helm.

“Because you keep bringing up your stupid briefcase,” Velocity said, arms crossed.

“Because I know you,” Nautica argued even more directly. 

Not coming up with any proper responses to that, Brainstorm rubbed his servos together nervously. “Look, I really _don’t_ remember much. And why I’ve got briefcases on the mind? It could mean literally anything – I always have my greatest invention, and greatest _failure_ and _mistake_ – on my processor. You don’t spend years constructing a perfect plan to save the mech you loved and every other bot ever taken from us as a species because of the War without having it take up a decent portion of your consciousness.”

“And _that’s_ your big explanation?” Nautica asked critically. 

“No, I’m just saying that _whatever_ happened on Eukaris, everyone else’s injuries were heavy, if they survived at all,” Brainstorm rubbed at the cables of his neck. “I’m kinda grateful to just be jumbled in my head.”

“More like _suspiciously avoided,”_ Velocity argued. “Whoever attacked the others didn’t care to kill them or maim them. But for some reason _you_ were spared. And that has to be for a reason.”

“But _what_ reason?” Nautica asked, bringing a hand to her chin. 

“If I could propose something,” Nightbeat finally spoke up from his seat nearby, he had been pouring four energon cubes for them all and then brought them over. “We have to take into account that while a genius weapons inventor–”

Brainstorm puffed up at the compliment. “Why thank you–”

“Brainstorm’s been proven useless in combat. So there is always the possibility that he was seen as non-threatening to these attackers,” Nightbeat continued.

Affronted, Brainstorm crossed his arms. “Well, _that’s_ not completely fair–”

Nightbeat then steepled his fingers before his face and turned to face all of them at once. “But it wouldn’t explain the prominence of your briefcase in your thoughts since the incident. That seems to indicate some sort of _representative associative memory.”_

Nautica tilted her helm. “Meaning?”

“Either the briefcase symbolizes something Brainstorm’s subconscious is trying to tell him, or it is _exactly_ what it’s meant to be, and he’s got some sort of clue in there as to what _really_ happened down on Eukaris,” Nightbeat surmised. 

“Those are two very different possibilities,” Velocity said calmly. “How are we supposed to figure out which one it is?” 

“Finding clues isn’t always so simple when you’re looking at the bigger picture,” Nightbeat shrugged. 

“So, what, you want me to get psychoanalysis?” Brainstorm asked. “No thanks. I find it to be a pseudoscience. Unless it’s Rung. I’ll talk to Rung.”

“We left Rung on Cybertron, remember?” Nautica sighed, crossing her arms. “I wish I could talk to him right now. He always knows the right thing to say, and is so kind and gentle. And always has energon sticks–”

“You realize he’s all of those things _because_ he is a trained doctor, of course,” Nightbeat partially teased. “But you’re right. It _is_ a shame we don’t have access to Rung at the moment. But… there are more simple ways. Maybe Chromedome–”

“Absolutely not,” Brainstorm snapped, surprising everyone. Taking a deep vent, Brainstorm pinched between his optics and shook his head. “Look, I worked at the Institute. I’ve been friends with Chromedome since before he was _named_ Chromedome. He doesn’t perform mnemosurgery anymore, doesn’t even have his needles. And even if he did, it _kills him_ bit by bit. I would _never_ ask him to do that again. Especially not for me.” He then pointed to his helm. “Also, _no one_ has permission to scramble this genius.”

"Sorry,” Nightbeat apologized almost immediately. “I was getting carried away. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Brainstorm agreed readily. 

“I don’t disagree with the idea of never volunteering mnemosurgery again under any circumstances,” Velocity spoke up, “but we really _do_ need you to try to remember _anything_ that could be helpful, Brainstorm. We’re wanting to help. Not just the others and the investigation, but _you._ It’s… not normal seeing you have such a lack of curiosity about something. Especially something that happened to _you.”_

Brainstorm couldn’t argue with that. 

But he also couldn’t explain why he feared trying to remember. 

Except…

He lowered his head and rubbed achingly at his helm. “I think the reason I was uninjured had to do with the briefcase. I don’t think it was an accident.”

“Yes!” Nightbeat called out excitedly, only to get shushed by the glares of the Camiens. 

“But I really _can’t_ dig further than that,” Brainstorm explained. “The only thing that comes to mind is…”

“Is what, Brainstorm?” Nautica asked gently, gripping his shoulder. 

He looked up at them. 

“Burning,” he replied. “Burning alive. Screaming. That’s all there is other than…. briefcases.”

* * *

If Ratchet could have ever before been described as _fighting mad,_ it wouldn’t hold a light to the rage surging through his cables after the nonsense double checking of Rodimus’ CR chamber. 

As if Rodimus’ spark hadn’t nearly gone out on them multiple times beforehand, as if _Ratchet and every other scientist and doctor_ weren’t enough to determine whether or not a bot  on the brink of extinguishment was _faking or not._

Ratchet’s grip on the control panel to the CR chamber nearly dented the metal. “Unthinking, _incapable_ Starscream _cronies!”_ he hissed, not caring in the least that at least two guards were still standing by the doors. “Look at the mess of the systems they made! And _Knock Out!_ I’ll have his license expunged, he’ll never work as a doctor on this planet so help me–”

“You shouldn’t have let them touch him!” Drift shouted at Ratchet angrily, hovering so close to Ratchet that the old doctor could practically feel him venting hot air. 

“How the frag was I supposed to stop them, Drift?” Ratchet demanded. “Pull out guns against them? Set up a coup?”

“I would have sliced down anyone who tried to get to either of you,” Drift responded coldly. “You held me back–”

“You’re full of scrap, now pipe up your vocalizer so I can restabilize Rodimus’ stasis before he fully comes out of it!” Ratchet bit back, watching the percentages of the various chemicals within the bath slowly recalibrate. “Come _on,_ he’s been out of the cryogen too long!”

Drift somehow managed to hover even closer. “What can I do? Are there supplies you need from anywhere I can get?”

“You know what you can do? You can go sit your aft down and let me work!” Ratchet snapped just before Rodimus’ vitals began to start up at an alarming rate, the waves detected from his processor spiking. “Frag it! Rodimus, don’t do this yet–”

“What’s happening!?” Drift demanded. 

"He’s waking up!” Ratchet snapped back before looking, optics wide, toward the glass of the CR chamber. 

There was noticeable twitching as the cables along Rodimus’ protoform attempted to activate limbs and armor that wasn’t quite there yet. His forcefully peaceful face squinted together, nose curling before his jaw opened. 

His optics were still offline, but Rodimus was trying to speak. If him waking early from stasis wasn’t such a terrible thing in his current state, Ratchet could almost make a joke of it. 

The handprint that was burned across Rodimus’ faceplate and exposed the intricate metalwork and mesh beneath was disturbed by his immediate attempts to talk, and his jaw slackened and gave on that side that was still exposed. 

Choking on the cryogen and chemicals around him, Rodimus thrashed. His optics flashed on at once and he swung wildly against the various wires and restraints that had been placed there to keep him from a moment just like this. 

Drift finally left Ratchet’s backside to near the glass and hold up his hands in a soothing motion. “Rodimus, calm down! We’ll put you back in stasis, just cool it for a second. I know it hurts and it’s confusing–”

Ratchet assessed the spiking vitals and growled before submitting to the only thing to do, throwing the switch for the CR cahmber and beginning the drain of the liquids out of it, after they had spent all that time attempting to refill it. 

At first, Drift seemed shocked and confused as the liquid began to visibly drain from the chamber, then he turned and looked at Ratchet. “What are you doing!? You said he needs to go back in stasis–”

“It’s not going to work with him having a panic attack, we need to calm him down first before he gives himself a spark attack,” Ratchet answered, pressing the final termination sequence before rushing to Drift’s side and waiting for the door of the pod to open. 

The moment the glass was no longer restraining him, Rodimus let out a gulping vent and fell forward into Drift and Ratchet’s awaiting arms. He sputtered and coughed, straining to balance on his pedes beneath him but they were still underarmored and unblanced. He could barely find purchase against the slick floor of the laboratory. 

“I-I – what!? _Where!?”_ Rodimus cried out, spurring the guards to step closer from the door.

Ratchet freed one of his hands to hold up a finger and shake it at the guards. “You step one bit closer and I’m going to unleash Drift on you. You know. The one who’s been chomping at the bit for a fight for a week now?” he warned angrily. 

The guards looked at each other before stepping back into place. 

Relieved somewhat that it had worked, Ratchet vented then turned his attention back on Rodimus.

Drift was trying, with great difficulty, to soothe the captain. “Rodimus, you’re safe. We’re no longer on Eukaris – Ratchet and I came back for your team. We got you. You’re still being patched up.”

“Me!?” Rodimus cried out. “Th-the crew!”

He took another step without realizing the pede no longer had a stabilizer beneath the wheel. It flung him back and while his left arm flailed against Drift to stop himself from completely falling into it, Ratchet took immediate notice how his right limb hung limply by his side. 

Biting back on his words, Ratchet tried not to alarm either Rodimus _or_ Drift before he could get a full assessment of the limb. His processor immediately came up with a list of differentials for what could be causing the paralysis of the limb.

Maybe the others had been right, maybe Ratchet had been holding off on full surgical repair too long in hopes of the protoform reassembling what it could. 

Ratchet hoped not. It was hard to deny it now.

“Scrap,” he muttered under a vent. Drift was holding Rodimus up almost entirely on his own and looking to Ratchet worriedly. Ratchet snapped a finger toward the nearby slab. “Help get him to sit up on it if he can.”

"You don’t _understand!”_ Rodimus cried out nonsensically as Drift managed with almost too much ease to lift him up and set him on the table. Rodimus struggled, but with little frame and only one arm cooperating, it didn’t get him much. “I’m _dead!_ The crew–”

“You’re not dead, Rodimus, calm down,” Ratchet ordered, coming over to his side. “And… not all the away team with you died. We lost two, but the rest have been repaired, awakened, and Brainstorm’s even back on the Lost Light by now as we speak. Not that we’ve got many answers–”

Rodimus’ left hand reached up to his face, almost knowingly. “I’m supposed to be _dead!”_ he said, tenderly touching the handprint melted into his faceplate on the right side. 

Ratchet stared at Rodimus, processing the information.

Drift, though, wasted no time on Rodimus’ seemingly random actions and inactions. He gripped onto Rodimus tighter, keeping him upright. “You’re not, Rodimus! By the Thirteen, you _survived!_ Optimus Prime himself boosted your spark at least twice–”

That seemed to cause at least _something_ to click with Rodimus and the mech steadied. His optics flickered up toward Ratchet and to him it seemed almost as if there was something _haunting_ the captain’s blue lights. 

“Ratchet,” he all but gasped, “I n-need to talk to Optimus. I-I have to tell him!”

Composing himself, Ratchet held up his hands. “You’re in no condition for _anything._ We’re putting you back in stasis as soon as you get your bearings. I’ll knock you out myself if you don’t take a moment to vent.”

“You _don’t understand!”_ Rodimus shouted, vocalizer cracking.

“Rodimus, calm down,” Drift tried more softly, but Rodimus didn’t even look his way. 

“I’ll send word to Optimus that as soon as he’s back on-world he needs to talk to you,” Ratchet tried to assure him. “Until then, we’re going to have a _lot_ of procedures we have to do on you.”

At first it didn’t seem as though nay of Ratchet’s words were making an impact on Rodimus. He stared nearly through them, optics shifting without concentration for a moment before he jerked away from Drift’s hold to no avail _again._

“Th-then lock me up! Get… I need to be stopped!” Rodimus near yelled, reaching with his left hand again to cradle his head. “I have to be put away! I’m dangerous, I can’t– I can’t control–”

“Stop talking,” Ratchet ordered.

“You’re not making any sense, Rodimus – you’re _damaged_ , but Ratchet’s going to fix you,” Drift attempted to soothe.

“Don’t you _get_ it!?” Rodimus cried out. “I don’t _deserve_ fixing! I’m… _I killed them!_ It was _me!”_

Ratchet bit back on his denta. “Rodimus, _calm down,_ you’re talking nonsense–”

“That’s not how I hear it.”

Swearing with every foul word he could pull from his processor, Ratchet turned toward the door and saw not only Starscream, but at least four of the so-called delegates by him, including a _very_ shocked looking Windblade who looked nearly ready to tip forward and pass out from the exclamation from Rodimus. 

Starscream continued walking forward. “You heard it yourself, Council of Worlds. And without any _further_ objections, I want to place delegate Windblade under arrest _once again_ along with Captain Rodimus of the Lost Light.”

To Ratchet’s horror, Rodimus almost seemed to ease up in relief. 

Drift was the opposite, stepping between the approaching guards and Rodimus with his swords drawn. “Not another step–”

“Drift!” Ratchet tried to snap. 

“ _Really_ now?” Starscream sighed before snapping his fingers. “Someone arrest anyone else who tries to resist as well. I won’t make any exceptions when it comes to protecting the _safety_ of Cybertron and this coalition. These _horrific_ crimes on Eukaris will be answered for.”

Windblade hardly resisted, still looking to be somewhat in shock as she was grabbed by the nearest guard. The other delegates looked simply mortified by everything that was going on but also seemed fairly determined to be on Starscream’s side in the matter.

Drift narrowed his optics and raised his sword as the soldiers neared, guns drawn, but Ratchet lunged at Drift and forcefully lowered his arms. 

“Are your wires crossed?” Ratchet demanded.

“Are _yours?”_ Drift snapped in retaliation.

Lowering his voice, Ratchet lowered Drift’s swords further. “Frag it, Drift. Surrender willingly that way we can at _least_ have you keep an eye on Rodimus in prison and make sure nothing shady happens there. I’ll work from up here to get myself and First Aid access so we can perform medical procedures – Starscream can’t have a bot kept in inhumane conditions let alone put on trial–”

“There won’t be any trial!” Drift snapped.

“We can’t stop one until Prime’s here, now surrender!” Ratchet snapped. 

Angrily, Drift finally listened to logic and threw his swords to the ground, allowing the soldiers to swarm him. “You better be right, Ratchet.”

“I know,” Ratchet muttered, mostly to himself as he locked optics with Starscream. “I know.”


	14. 3.4 One Hand Tied Behind the Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chugging on along! I should note that rather than being 5 chapters, part III is actually six chapters so this is just the second to last chapter for Part III. Just a head’s up to those who care about the structure of this silly thing lol
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, Snozzlefrog, and @secretlystephaniebrown for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part III: The Risk of Saving the Guilty  
Chapter 3.4: One Hand Tied Behind the Back**

Drift watched from his cell, leaning against the wall to get the best angle he could to watch as Ratchet and First Aid dressed the wounds of an uncharacteristically silent Rodimus in the cell diagonally across from him.

Having been a former criminal as well as a former Decepticon, Drift had already concocted multiple ways to break out of his cell the moment something was sketchy or Starscream sent someone to take out Rodimus. He was so _confident_ it was going to happen he hadn’t settled down for a recharge the entire time. 

It hadn’t happened. Yet. 

“Move your fingers,” Ratchet ordered Rodimus. 

The captain’s hand remained limply in Ratchet’s servos, his head bowed enough that Drift couldn’t even make out an expression through the shadows. 

“Are you _trying_ to move your fingers, Rodimus, or are you ignoring me?” Ratchet asked impatiently. 

“Ratchet,” First Aid muttered, drawing both Ratchet and Drift’s gazes to his side of Rodimus. 

The fingers of his left hand twitched, as ordered. 

“It could be the cable damage, they’re pretty exposed on that side,” First Aid suggested. 

“No, it was much worse on his left side,” Ratchet replied gruffly. “I want some sort of analysis done on his neural net. But so far they’re being mum about allowing us to take him back up to the medical bay.” 

First Aid shook his helm. “As if putting him under guard _there_ would be any different from having him under guard _here_ –”

“It’s different, all right,” Ratchet growled. “It’s _inhumane_ to have a hardly functioning bot held in a dungeon cell under the evidence that he blurted out half in hysteria.”

Slowing his own pace of doctoring Rodimus’ limbs, First Aid looked worriedly toward Ratchet. “We’re certain that’s all it was?”

Having had enough, Drift slammed his fist against the field of his cell, ignoring the shocks that rode down his limb as a result. It got the doctors’ attentions. “Stop talking around him like he’s still in a coma. He can hear you. Can’t you, Rodimus?”

Looking to his friend, Drift held a vent, waiting for a response. But none came. He just twitched his left fingers again. 

Ratchet got to his pedes and looked toward First Aid.  “Keep doing what you can, I need to speak with Drift.”

“Wasn’t going to stop just because you were walking away,” First Aid fired back as he continued his work.

Drift grew quiet, watching as Ratchet came his way. The old medic regarded the distance of the guards before looking more fully at Drift. “It was kind nearly to the point of foolish for them to put you in a cell this close to Rodimus.”

“That was Ironhide,” Drift clarified.

“Good bot, always was,” Ratchet mused.

“Good bot _working for Starscream_ and allowing us to get locked up to begin with,” Drift snapped in return. “Hard to make the argument that _any_ bot’s a good bot in those circumstances.”

“For taking the opportunity to do what you can in a bad situation?” Ratchet asked. “I suppose the only good bots are the ones who are stubborn enough to be locked up for being unyielding then.”

“If more bots did it, they’d run out of cells,” Drift replied crossly. 

Rolling his optics, Ratchet just vented and leaned in closer. “Well, _from_ your choice seat down in the dungeons, have you been able to see anything? Has anyone tried to speak to Rodimus? Is there a _reason_ he’s basically putting himself in reserve mode?”

Alarmed, Drift glanced back across the cells toward Rodimus. He still hadn’t moved since Ratchet left him. “He _is?”_

“Basically, he’s catatonic compared to his usual self – compared to those outbursts he was giving us a while ago,” Ratchet explained. 

“No,” Drift answered. “No, no one’s come by. No one’s done anything since throwing us in here.”

He didn’t mention the near-pity that the guards seemed to have when they were putting Rodimus in his cell compared to the half-throw that tossed Drift into his. Drift was still too mad, still too protective to allow any sort of positive thought toward anyone involved with the grand conspiracy against them. 

It was short sighted for someone who had been on every end of a war and back. Drift found he didn’t care about the hypocrisy. 

“What about anything else?” Ratchet asked. “Have you noticed anything?”

Thinking, Drift glanced to a different cell from Rodimus’ for the first time in hours. 

“The delegate,” Drift said lowly, bringing Ratchet to look toward Windblade with him. “The one who was close with Optimus Prime when he was here. She’s been treated to the same hospitality we have. She’s not done anything, but she’s been pacing. _Thinking._ Her field is basically a hum of open energy–”

“Of course you immediately jump to field readings,” Ratchet muttered.

“She knows more about what’s going on than we do,” Drift continued. “When Optimus gets here, you need to tell him to press her for the real answers.”

“Alright,” Ratchet said with a nod. “I _did_ find it suspicious that Rodimus’ outburst got _her_ arrested, too. I’ll ask around with people I trust to see if there’s anything else on her I can figure out before Optimus arrives.”

“Before he _arrives?”_ Drift asked critically. “Why aren’t you calling him _now_ and getting him sooner!? They’re going to _keep_ Rodimus down here as long as they can, Ratchet, you know that. I’m already hearing rumors about some kind of trial _because_ Starscream wants all of this done before Prime has time to straighten it out!”

“I realize that, but I also know that any message I send out to Rodimus is going to be used against us,” Ratchet said pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Drift said, listening as the doors down the walkway opened. “Here they come.”

Starscream was holding himself proudly, strutting like he had accomplished something. It made Drift want _so_ badly to knock him down a few pegs. Which, given, was something Drift had felt even when he was a Decepticon. 

“Are you almost done in here, doctors?” Starscream asked.

“No,” Ratchet answered before First Aid even had the chance. He stepped away from Drift’s cell to stand between Starscream and Rodimus’ cell. “And it is a _complete_ violation of agreed ethical standards to have a severely injured patient retained in custody when medical services are available.”

“Yes,” Starscream agreed. “But last I recall, those were ethics of _wartime,_ Ratchet. Those were terms agreed upon for _enemies._ We are in a time of _peace._ And this is not a rival side of a skirmish but perpetrators of a crime against all of Cybertron – acts of _terrorism.”_

Drift gritted his denta. “And _what_ exactly is your evidence?”

“You shall see it at trial,” Starscream said with a wave of his hand. “Since this is an event that involves multiple locations within the Council and has victims of _all_ colonial and homeworld origins, that evidence is about to be presented at trial before a tribunal from the Council of Worlds.”

“Fat chance,” Ratchet snapped. 

First Aid joined Ratchet’s side. “Rodimus is too injured–”

“I’ll go.”

Drift joined everyone in looking toward Rodimus in shock. The bot’s head was still hanging, his body rested against the corner of his cell. But the blues of his optics was looking up at them. “I’ll go before the Council. I deserve it.”

* * *

Starscream _knew_ he was making a miscalculation. 

There was nothing more difficult to deal with than a _sympathetic_ opposition, and having been there from the start of the Decepticons’ rise on Cybertron, Starscream had made a point of not underestimating _sympathies_ and the court of public opinion when it came to his rule.

That was something that Megatron had never taken fully into account. In his savage drive to do what was _righteous_ by old slights, he didn’t see how the story evolved from being his as triumph to _Autobots’_ story of a tyrannical force that undid all good he had managed eons ago. 

No one knew how to spin stories better than Starscream, it was how he had managed to reach the position he had as leader of Cybertron. 

So he _knew_ that putting a hardly functional, hardly able to stand for himself Rodimus on trial before the Council was very likely not going to play well. 

He could too easily be seen as the victim no matter _what_ accusations were made. 

But, should he wait, Starscream’s careful balance of power and his window of opportunity to get rid of _all_ to do with the cult and Error would erode away. There was no doubt that Prime would be on his way, and once he arrived, he would take at least half of Starscream’s current loyalty on the Council.

To speak _nothing_ of Prime’s sway over the general public. 

“Rattrap,” Starscream said, glancing to his assistant as the Council began to fill in the room. 

“Yes, Lord Starscream?” he asked back with some unsteadiness in his voice. His possible exaggerations and lies as to the story about _seeing_ Rodimus and Windblade as cultists were obviously making him uncomfortable. 

“Talk to the guards,” Starscream instructed him. “Tell them that there will be _no_ reporters or cameras allowed in these proceedings, understand?’

“Yessir!” Rattrap said before scurrying off.

Starscream folded his hands before his eyes and took a long vent. He would announce the verdict and explain Rodimus’ vain treachery soon enough, and the less sympathetic the images he could give the press for Rodimus’ identification would shift opinions their way. 

“Done, Lord Starscream,” Rattrap chirped up as he came walking back from the short trip to the guards. “Everything’s taken carre of.”

Humming to the news, Starscream leaned his jaw into an awaiting hand. “Tell me something, Rattrap. I’ve been trying to figure it out for myself,” he said lowly, carefully. “If Rodimus and Windblade were instrumental in saving you from Error’s attack… why _would_ you turn against them now?”

"What’d’ya mean?” the beastformer asked almost nervously.

Starscream tilted his helm. “It really is a rathe straightforward question, isn’t it? Though, I suppose, you _do_ have difficulty with answering those.” He crossed his arms as he continued to leer at Rattrap, making him squirm in place. “If you recall, when you first gained my confidence, I told you that I was familiar with the game you wanted to play – that I had played it myself and it had gotten me to where we are now. And I meant it when I said that I _admired_ those who joined me in playing. But that doesn’t mean my suspicions lessen or that I can’t know when my supposedly loyal supporter is overextending the trust he’s earned.” 

“I’m not–”

Shaking his head once, Starscream got Rattrap to immediately close his mouth. “I’m merely curious, Rattrap. What’s the _play?_ What are you _earning_ from this, turning on those who, in your own statement, saved you from Error’s wrath.”

There was a gulping noise from Rattrap and he teetered in place slightly. “I just…”

“Are _so_ loyal to my claim to Cybertron, I’m sure,” Starscream mocked. 

“It’s hard to explain, Sir, but if even if they saved me, working for that cult, for those _terrorists,_ they’re endangering _all_ of Cybertron,” Rattrap said decisively. “I can’t overlook that. Even for my own aft!”

Humming slightly, Starscream couldn’t hide his disappointment in the answer he finally got. “Very well then,” he sighed, walking forward past Rattrap and toward the hall. “I’m disappointed, my friend. I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

“What do you mean?” Rattrap asked, aghast.

“I thought for _certain_ that you’d be more on my level, that you would know when to _cease_ power as it was available for you to take,” he sighed. “Ah, well. I suppose I should just accept gifts without looking them in the engine.”

While Rattrap sputtered behind him for a response, Starscream refocused his concentration on the so-called trial ahead. 

He had fantasized about sentencing some of the main Autobots to tremendous sentences before. Little fantasies he allowed himself in some of the more boring processes of ruling Cybertron. Rodimus, one of Optimus’ right hand bots, was of course one of those but also one of the least realistic before that day. 

After all, there was a charisma factor and a _war hero_ factor that had garnered him quite a bit of a reputation even despite his known hotheadedness and consistent mistakes. 

In almost any circumstances imaginable, Rodimus would have been able to conjure up some support for himself among the greater Cybertronian community – much like he had managed to do right under Bumblebee’s nose in order to start his Lost Light quest to begin with. 

The Rodimus who stood before the Council at the end of the hall was _not_ that adversary though. 

If Starscream could overcome the irony of such a statement, he might have even called the pathetic wreck of a mech before him a _shell_ of his former self. 

Starscream crossed the room, not daring to take optics off of Rodimus until he found his seat at the head of the Council. He knew that the vast majority of the delegates on their ruling body would have struggled with some suggestions of _dignity_ and _sympathy_ under normal circumstances – which would have made a trial with such a pathetic looking accused less favorable to Starscream’s means – but fortunately fear was an _excellent_ motivator for what were usually rational and moral mechs. 

Windblade stood not far behind Rodimus, handcuffed and still looking bewildered at the fact that she was in her current predicament. 

There were many things to do and little time to do them, but fortunately for Starscream he could _always_ find time to revel in an adversary’s horror and confusion. 

Keeping face, Starscream folded his hands together and sat back in his chair at the head of the Council. He hardly got more than passing judgmental glances from the fellow council members, which meant their attentions were properly on the defendants. 

Fair enough. 

“Lets get this ghastly business over with,” Starscream said, rolling his wrist. “While we had all hoped that such an unprecedented event as a cross-jurisdiction crime, we also all can agree that, in truth, there was a certain amount of expectation we all held for this possibility. And that it was always going to fall upon this very council to deal with these heinous crimes. So, today, I ask my fellow delegates if you are prepared to set the precedent for prosecuting severe crimes perpetrated by one of our citizens upon citizens of another jurisdiction and, complicated further yet, by its occurrence in yet another. Can we all put aside personal stake and perspectives to rule fairly here?”

“There is no need for presentation, Starscream,” Obsidian said grimly. “We have all come today. Now let us hear the cases.”

“Killjoy,” Starscream muttered under his breath before venting and looking toward Rodimus. “Hot Rod of Nyon,” he noted how the very mention of his home caused a full body flinch, “In charges against you involving the assault and demise of several fellow mech including two Eukarians, one Cybertronian, one Velocitronian, and a Camien, how do you plead?”

The shell of an Autobot looked dazed by the question. “I… where’s Optimus?” 

An uncomfortable shift moved through the Council and Starscream did not at all miss it. 

Annoyed, Starscream leaned forward. “This hearing does not acknowledge any legal authority you may claim in the name of a Prime,” he said clearly. “As you may have noticed, I used your _initial_ designation. Not that given to you after your time falsely holding the Matrix–”

“If Optimus isn’t here you _have_ to put me back,” Rodimus said, still not even remotely on the same page as the rest of them. 

A murmur erupted among the Council, and Starscream could feel the energon surging through him _boiling._

“Is that an _admission of guilt?_ Requesting to be locked up?” Starscream yelled loudly, attempting to regain control of the conversation. 

“Please,” Rodimus pressed. 

“What _is_ this, Starscream?” Knock Out asked, turning on Starscream with a suspicious glare. “This bot is _clearly_ not in his right mind, and on top of that, I verified his stasis condition, which means the testimony of Rattrap is inadmissible.”

"How much more evidence would the Council need besides the confession of one of these terrorists and the word of one of its own members?” Starscream asked, though, of course, the question was rhetorical. 

He simply needed them to remember the fear and anger that had been inspired by Error’s attacks against their very senses of safety and efficacy. 

That was more than enough to convict. 

“The connection is vague, but Eukaris demands answers,” Tigatron announced stiffly. “If we could perhaps _postpone_ actual sentencing while assuring that there is extreme measure taken to keep suspects under watch.”

“Carcer is also concerned with anyone suspected of betraying its trust in particular,” Obsidian announced, focusing his dark gaze on Windblade. “After all, it is _honesty_ we value. However, there is nothing to hold delegate Windblade other than Rattrap’s word.”

“And that’s not enough?” Rattrap asked critically from Starscream’s side.

“No,” Obsidian answered brutally. 

“Fine,” Starscream snapped angrily. “We will release Windblade under extreme scrutiny, and with the condition that if she _pokes her nose_ in our investigations any further it will be deemed suspicious behavior and she’ll be back in a cell.” 

“I think it’s curious that you seem so dedicated to assessing _my_ part in this somehow, Lord Starscream,” Windblade fired back.

“There is nothing _on_ Windblade,” Moonracer argued. “And your continued angling this around her is _highly_ suspicious, Lord Starscream.”

“Fine, then she’s free to go and Hot Rod will be returned to his cell until adequate information is gathered. _As the Council wishes,”_ Starscream replied sourly.

“Until Optimus is back,” Rodimus persisted. 

“His authority is not recognized!” Starscream snapped. 

“We shall see about that, Starscream.”

Starscream cycled his optics and dropped his head back in defeat and blinding hot rage. Because it truly was _only_ the voice of Optimus Prime entering the chamber that could have possibly caused him _that_ much more of a processor ache.

* * *

Rodimus couldn’t believe it – _finally!_ At long last! Optimus was there, he _came._ It was later than Rodimus had wanted but praise Primus he could finally talk to Optimus about what happened. 

The trial didn’t concern Rodimus, the mechs on the Council of Worlds didn’t concern him. 

Optimus was there. And then Optimus was leading him back to the medical bay. Rodimus didn’t think twice about why, didn’t question why he was still in restraints, he followed to the best of his ability, ignoring the way his pedes wavered without properly working stabilizers. 

Ratchet was there already, as was Rung and Drift, but none of it mattered.

“Optimus, I have to talk to you, please,” Rodimus begged as the door closed, leaving all of them in the room without any of Starscream’s guards. 

There was no softness in Optimus’ gaze as he looked at Rodimus. 

“Yes. You _do,”_ Optimus said lowly. 

The tone of the Prime was apparently enough to cause alarm between Ratchet and Drift as they began to move closer to Rodims, almost between him and Optimus. 

But again, Rodimus didn’t care. He was there to confess.

“It was my fault. All those bots died, and it was due to my hand,” he explained. “I’m ready to stand on trial for what happened at Nyon.”

At that point, Ratchet and Drift shifted their concerned looks from Optimus to Rodimus. It was utter disbelief between the two of them, but that could not have registered less with Rodimus.

The only one who didn’t seem surprised was Optimus. And why would he be? He was _there._ He already _knew._

When Optimus pulled his gaze from Rodimus, it felt like a sentencing already, like judgment had already been passed. But Optimus looked at Rung. “I have a recording that I am going to share with only you and Ratchet. Megatron and Ultra Magnus believe it’s essential toward helping Rodimus–”

“I don’t deserve that name anymore, Starscream was right. I should go back to going by Hot Rod,” Rodimus continued to confess. 

“Is this what I think it is?” Ratchet demanded. “We didn’t look for any signs either on his neck or on his processor. There was so much other damage – dammit! Stupid mistake. A sparkling would’ve known better That’s one of the first thing they teach you in medical school – for every diagnosis you miss for not knowing, you miss _ten_ for not looking.”

“I suspected but I was apparently too optimistic given the increased odds of recovery,” Rung sighed, cleaning his goggles with a long vent. “Truly, we are dealing with _real_ monsters.”

Growing impatient and confused, Rodimus waved his good hand toward his chest, flinching at the feeling of metal clinking against his half exposed spark chamber. “Why do you need recordings? I’m confessing to you right now! I need to be stopped before I cause anymore damage. Like when I trusted Doubledealer and _then_ Swindle and…” His processor began throbbing. He knew the points were connected, but he couldn’t quite string them together. Not out loud in any case. He reached up and gently held his helm as his optics cycled off. “You were there, Optimus. I trust your judgment. I saw you take the Matrix.”

“Rodimus–”

“I don’t deserve that,” Rodimus announced stiffly.

“ _Hot Rod_ , if that makes you more comfortable then,” Rung continued gently. “Hot Rod, you are _very_ confused at the moment. Someone has possibly damaged your processor, interfered with your memories. We’re going to need Ratchet and some other doctors to examine you again and then start reconstructing your frame – _actually_ reconstructing it. Not leaving you exposed as you are now.”

“No,” Rodimus refused angrily. “If I have my arms I’ll hurt people again–”

“ _Rodimus,”_ Ratchet made a point of grinding out, ignoring the displeased look Rung gave him, “the events you’re talking about? They’re different things. They’re _millennia_ apart from each other in some cases! Scrap, the thing with Swindle you’re talking about took place on _Earth_ , and that was over fifteen years ago. I know, because _I_ was there.”

Scowling, Rodimus shook his head and cycled his optics back on. “I know what I remember! And it doesn’t matter because Optimus was there and he’s the only one who has a right to make a judgment call on it.”

“You need to calm down, Rod,” Drift said almost gently reaching out toward Rodimus. “You’re worked up and _very_ hurt. You’re not making a lot of sense.”

“The only thing that matters is that I killed people with my own hand!” Rodimus snapped in return. “I don’t deserve whatever sympathies you’re trying to give me–”

"Rodimus, that’s enough,” Optimus said, causing Rodimus to snap his misaligned jaw shut as quickly as he could. There still was no softness in the Prime’s gaze, even as he looked at the bot on proverbial trial, but he _also_ had purposefully used the name he had given Rodimus himself. “This is not about Nyon. I was there for Nyon, but not for _this._ This is about Eukaris.”

The name sparked some familiarity to Rodimus’ senses, but not _much._

“I killed–”

“I have listened to the recordings,” Optimus said. “My order is for you to _get help._ To do what Ratchet and… _Wrang_ tell you to do after I have allowed _them_ to listen to them. And then we will determine what to do from there.”

“It was _my hand,”_ Rodimus pressed.

“I know,” Optimus replied. 

A wave of shock went off around them, Optimus receiving confused looks from Ratchet, Drift, and Rung. But Rodimus didn’t care. He was _relieved._ He could see that Optimus knew what had happened. 

“I was too weak to stop, Optimus, I’m sorry,” he tried to apologize, but Optimus held up his hand.

“We will discuss it after you’ve been fixed up more, Rodimus. Now that Ratchet knows the source of the issue, I’m sure straightening it out will be simpler,” Optimus replied. And Rodimus accepted. It made _sense._

“Optimus, you know that undoing Shadowplay isn’t that simple,” Ratchet snapped at him. “And after I took Chromedome’s needles, we don’t know a professional surgeon for it–”

“I wouldn’t allow it either way,” Rung announced. “I may not consider myself much of a practitioner anymore, but I will remain ethical, and that is _not_ a solution to Shadowplay – more undergoing the needle. He needs therapy.”

Nothing they were saying made sense to Rodimus, he wasn’t even sure they were talking about _him_ anymore.

“Which is why you two will be working together,” Optimus announced. “You can sort out how that’ll be managed, I need to speak with Windblade and some of the delegates to manage what I can there.”

Alarmed to see Optimus turn his back on them, Rodimus reached out with his good am. “But… Optimus–”

“I’ll be back when you’re… better, Rodimus,” Optimus assured him, but he couldn’t even turn around to say it to Rodimus’ face. Instead, he kept walking toward the exit. 

Rodimus stood among the bots who, for reasons beyond him, were still calling themselves his friends, and watched as the Prime left without fully judging his sins. He couldn’t find the words, but he knew deep in his spark that he didn’t need Optimus later, he needed him _now._


	15. 3.5: In the Public’s Best Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could try to give all the excuses for why it took so long to write this chapter and get it out for you guys, but ultimately I just have to say that I’ve had a really, really unreasonably tough month that has taken away from my time to write this story quite a bit. But, hopefully, the length of the chapter can somewhat atone for the sin of having left it for so long. Thank you all fo being so patient with me, it means a lot. 
> 
> Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, Isame, Snozzlefrog, and Squiggol for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part III: The Risk of Saving the Guilty  
Chapter 3.5: In the Public’s Best Interest**

“You honestly just don’t know when to give up, do you?” Chromia asked in irritation. “Did you miss the part where you were thrown in jail for a few hours without due cause because of this maniac and how he runs this Primus forsaken planet?”

Windblade _of course_ didn’t have to be reminded of such things. She had just watched her fellow delegates nearly give her a sentence for the very same injustice. 

“I didn’t,” she answered Chromia instead, pushing on forward through the halls of the very capital that had been her prison just beforehand. “And persistence will never be a bad quality.”

“Too much of _any_ quality can be a bad thing,” Chromia muttered, though it wasn’t lost on Windblade. 

She _knew_ she was pressing her luck. She had known that before she ever fully accepted her position at Cybertron for the Mistress of Flame and Caminus. Perhaps he had gone at these things with a certain naivety and self-righteousness. Maybe she had been knocked off her feet more than once by Cybertron and its ever incredulous leader. 

But Windblade at least could not clall herself naive anymore. 

“Things are only ever going to change around here if mechs like _us_ refuse to allow the utter nonsense that is Starscream’s governing,” Windblade declared, finally leading them directly into the innermost chamber of Metroplex’s body and to the secreted away brain module. 

“There is no way that Starscream won’t figre out where you’ve gone to if we’re here,” Chromia continued to object. “They’ll be on us in minutes.”

“I only need a few,” Windblade assured her, walking toward the console before the brain module. “Util then, I’d appreciate if you could watch the door.”

“Don’t I always?” Chromia sighed, producing her battleaxe and taking charge of the door.

Windblade smiled apologetically toward her friend before stepping up to Metroplex’s brain. “Hello, Metroplex. I’m sorry I haven’t been by recently.”

 _Wind-voice._ he greeted her as usual. There was a note of hesitation before he continued. _You are… upset._

Offering the Titan a gentle smile, Windblade reached toward the brain module and began to pull for the direct connection. “Frazzled more than upset,” she admitted. “But I’m hoping you can help.”

_Help. I will. For Wind-voice._

“Please, Metroplex,” she said, connecting the line directly from his brain module to the side of her own helm, “let me see through your eyes. Help me search for someone who wishes to cause us all harm.”

The Titan seemed alarmed, if not exhausted, by the request. There was an understanding of the underlying danger and nervousness of his citizens that Metroplex had been aware of, but beyond that the specifics had eluded him until their linking. 

_Stop them, Wind-voice._

Windblade nodded. “I absolutely will, Metroplex. You _know_ I will. We just have to find out where they are first of all. Can you help me?”

Immediately, security feeds throughout Metroplex’s system began popping up all around Windblade. There were more than she could reasonably get through herself, but fortunately her connection to Metroplex was giving her the ability to scan through them quickly enough.

It was like searching a Titan for any of the various system errors or pains it might have been feeling, but accelerated. 

Metroplex was taking Windblade’s lead and specifically honing in on parties he had no innate connection with – those who, in a sense, had not belonged to the city. That were foreign to him. 

But the more their focus shifted to that concentration, the more feeds began to pop up. Dozens quickly became _hundreds_  and suddenly they were both staring at unfamiliar faces all over the city. 

_Don’t know them, Wind-voice. Still mine, Wind-voice._

Her own head was throbbing and Windblade reached up to her mantle. “I know, I know,” she said out loud. “This is all wrong–”

Getting Chromia’s attention, the bodygard turned enough from her post at the door to look worriedly at Windblade. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“This, what I’m doing – _the way_ I’m doing it. It’s wrong,” Windblade explained, looking tiredly at Chromia. “Metroplex has become a hub – a metropolitan between all of the city-states of Cybertron’s surviving population, of all the colonies. We are looking for those who _don’t_ belong based on Metroplex’s relations to them, his familiarity, and all it’s doing is making everything muggier. _None_ of us belong at the end of the day by that definition.”

“Find another way then,” Chromia replied, seemingly unaware of the problem truly at hand.”

“Chromia, you don’t understand,” Windblade said, exhausted already. “Think about the targets thus far. Think about Error’s actions. He’s out of place in Metroplex, maybe, but they aren’t the actions of an unfamiliar resident,” she said. “It’s not truly a _colonist_ at work. These are the actions of someone familiar. Someone at _home.”_

Chromia crossed her arms. “You said that Metroplex doesn’t know him.”

"He doesn’t,” Windblade agreed. “I don’t… It _doesn’t_ make sense, I know, but neither does trying to trifle through _everyone_ on the streets and abusing that power when we have no indication that we’re even on the right lead. That’s something _Starscream_ would’ve asked me to do if he wasn’t so sure that I was a part of this mess somehow.”

Chromia turned fully and tilted her helm. “But Starscream _didn’t_ think of this. _You_ did.”

“I know, and that _scares_ me,” Windblade replied. She looked back to the Titan’s brain module before her. “I’m so sorry to have abused your power like that, Metroplex. I won’t do it again,” she promised before unplugging herself from the system. 

“You’re _not_ Starscream, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Chromia said without hesitation. “I know that look on your face – that’s your look of _I’ve messed everything up._ You haven’t. There hasn’t been anything to mess up yet. So don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Windblade asked critically, looking to her bodyguard and friend. “Chromia, don’t you remember when we spoke with Optimus before? When we talked about Shadowplay and mnemosurgery… how he said that their ethics were debatable? How _horrified_ I was to hear that from not only someone we trusted but from someone who was a _Prime?”_

While she didn’t look convinced, Chromia apparently knew Windblade well enough to not continue the debate. “What’s the solution then? You need to find Error – not just to save lives but to prove your innocence in all of this nonsense. How are we supposed to do that without crossing any lines?” She frowned, looking off with some amount of shame in her optics. “You would know better than me. I’ve crossed too many lines before. We both know that.”

Dropping her head, Windblade hugged her arms and tried to think. 

Her optics flickered back up to Chromia as she had an epiphany. “ _Why_ was Rattrap so convinced that he saw myself and _Rodimus_ – someone I don’t even really know – with Error? Convinced enough he went to Starscream and got him to act on it. Like he was genuinely afraid of what he had learned.”

Chromia gave the question a genuine frown. “Is it not enough to just assume that he has a name like _Rattrap_ for a reason? He’s one of Starscream’s cronies plain and simple.”

“No,” Windblade said with an affirmative shake of her head. “It’s not that simple. Rattrap is in this for himself, not for Starscream. And for him to react to myself and Rodimus with the vitriol that he did is _significant._ It was genuine fear – he _believed_ that we were somehow involved and endangering the rest of Cybertron.”

“Then he’s a crony _and_ an idiot,” Chromia replied defensively. “Where are you taking this thought train, Windblade?”

“To the next logical conclusion, Chromia,” Windblade answered She turned to Metroplex’s brain module and reached out to it softly once more. “Thank you, Metroplex. And I promise again to not abuse our relationship like that again. I trust you to do everything you deem necessary to protect all Cybertronian life.”

_Wind-voice. Thank you._

Relieved, Windblade turned sharply and started back out the doors. 

“Where are we going now?” Chromia asked.

“Following that thought!” Windblade answered zestfully before quickening her pace. 

As familiar as she was with the capital, it did not take her long to lead them both exactly to the medlab that Ratchet had all but taken over from Knock Out and First Aid in the past few weeks. Chromia, always a speedster herself, didn’t miss a step, always shoulder to shoulder with Windblade the whole way. 

Just as they reached the threshold, however, Optimus Prime himself was stepping outside of the room with Knock Out, of all bots, at his side. 

“Optimus!” Windblade called out, getting the Prime’s attention as she came to a halt by him. “Is Rodimus in there? I need to speak with him.”

Knock Out released a sarcastic vent and rolled his wrist. “Good luck with that. There’s not much _upstairs_ in that bot right now, if you catch my drift.”

“I do not think that is the best idea at the moment, Windblade,” Optimus said more gently. “At the moment, Ratchet is reconstructing a base frame for Rodimus, and against all of our suggestions, he has refused to be placed offline for the procedure. Rung, the psychiatrist, is sitting with him through the process and I do not believe the session should be interrupted. For anyone’s sake.”

“This is important, Optimus, I promise,” Windblade argued. “I’m trying to track down exactly why Rattrap thought we were agents of this cult.”

“Delegate Windblade, is that the wisest decision for you?” Knock Out asked, crossing his arms. “Given the close shave you nearly had before the Council and the fact that another honored delegate has accused of steep atrocities, I would assume you would do your best to keep your nose out of the investigation from this point on.”

"Sounds like Council meetings haven’t been enough to give you a real idea of who Windblade is,” Chromia half mocked. 

Windblade ignored the two of them, instead focusing on the Prime. Optimus still seemed distant in thought – more so than she had ever seen him before. And his dire attitude had _not_ been improved by whatever business had taken him to the Lost Light and back. 

“Optimus,” she said, stepping up to him. “If nothing else, I’d appreciate knowing your perspective on all of this. At the very least, you have more stakes and understanding of the elements and mechs involved than I do. I’d value your opinion more than any right now.”

He focused his optics on her for a moment, but they were not filled with the warmth of the Matrix. 

“My opinion should not carry more weight than the others. Especially not now,” Optimus answered instead. “Please do not disturb Ratchet and Rung’s work at the moment, Windblade. I trust you to do whatever you deem right or necessary, but what they are doing right now with Rodimus is vital work. It may save Rodimus’ spark.”

He then continued to walk away, Knock Out reluctantly following behind him for some reason. 

Chromia looked after them, helm tilted to the side. “Wonder what that’s about. Any ideas, Windblade– Windblade? What are you doing?”

Settling on the floor outside the door, Windblade rested her back and wings against the wall. “Waiting until I get the clear to speak with Rodimus. I need answers. He seems to be the only one with anything close to them.”

Staring at her, Chromia shook her head. “You’re one stubborn bot,” the bodyguard sighed before taking a seat on the floor opposite to Windblade. 

Sharing a small smile with Chromia, Windblade hugged her knees against her chest. “Thanks. You are, too.”

* * *

Ultra Magnus was no longer the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, and his status as Second-in-Command was questionable given the general confusion of having _Co-_ Captains. But he took his appointments, former and imagined, with a note of seriousness that would have turned lesser bots’ energon to crystals in their pipes. 

And with one such Co-Captain down, Ultra Magnus had never been more affirmed in his duty helping to keep the Lost Light in functioning order. 

Megatron sat back in his desk with servos stacked before his eyes. He seemed even more ancient and brittle than the war itself had ever made him seem. And that was after one of the few encounters between him and Optimus Prime that _hadn’t_ come to actual blows. 

“Is there anything you need me to do, Captain?” Magnus asked, nearly feeling as tired as Megatron looked. 

“Yes,” Megatron answered without hesitation, actually managing to surprise Magnus some. “I need you to get Bainstorm in here. Quickly. Before I rethink anything.”

Confused, Magnus reached to his wrist so as to send out the communication. He waited a moment, looking to his exhausted leader. “Are you certain you wish to meet with Brainstorm? You have not met with him one-on-one.”

“And I will continue with that record, you are staying here, too,” Megatron ordered flatly. “Send it out.”

Allow a twitch of emotion to cross his faceplate, Magnus sent out the signal at last and shook his head firmly. “As you wish, Sir,” he replied flatly. 

Considering the very public, very _close to success,_ assassination attempt that Brainstorm had attempted on Megatron on their very ship with time briefcases and nonsense abound, it was not exactly a Luna One level mystery of Cybertron why Megatron had not had much contact with his would-be killer compared to the other survivors of the mutiny. 

Which made the certain change suspicious, if nothing else. 

There was apparently some hesitation at least on Brainstorm’s end as it took him more than thirteen minutes to get to the Captain’s office whereas Ultra Magnus had calculated multiple times that a bot of his make and model could have easily traversed the space from the science lab to them in at _least_ nine minutes. 

Given the circumstances, however, Ultra Magnus neglected to bring up the discrepancy. 

“Uh, you asked for me?” Brainstorm asked cautiously, barely poking more than his helm into the room. 

“Yes, now get in and shut the door behind you,” Megatron ordered impatiently.

Brainstorm glanced from the captain to Ultra Magnus warily, but there was little encouragement to be offered. Instead he simply did as was ordered and came barely into the office, just enough steps to bring in his wings before the office door shut behind him. 

“Alright, guess you’re being serious about… _whatever_ this is,” Brainstorm joked lightly with a turn of his wrist. 

“I’m going to be curt with you, Brainstorm,” Megatron explained. “You were one of the least injured among the survivors on Eukaris. And your attempt on my life well before the mutiny is well known for its… elaborate nature and decades of planning.”

“ _Ooo-_ kay,” Brainstorm replied, tilting his helm. “Thank you? I guess?”

“Which is why you have raised my suspicions,” Megatron continued.

“What?” Brainstorm balked. 

“Please know that any truthful reply to me at this point will not be met with reprimand but with honest consideration,” Megatron explained, red eyes flickering with meaning. “I wish no harm to you now than I did when it was first learned you were going back in time to undo my life and its work.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Brainstorm asked flatly. “That’s just ambiguous enough that I can take it to mean you’ve _really_ wanted to kill me since that day. Just saying. Maybe we should hash everything out before this conversation continues–”

“Sir, perhaps it _would_ be best to allow me to work out some proper lines of questioning here,” Magnus offered. “I believe yours are… dubious at best–”

Megatron held up a hand and silenced them both, much to Magnus’ chagrin. 

“We haven’t the time for double meaning, only answers, I assure you,” Megatron explained. “Brainstorm, have you at any time – recently or in the past – been approached by this cult which seems to be at the center of undermining our mission to find the Knights of Cybertron _and_ undoing the very fabric of the peace back on Cybertron.”

For a moment, Brainstorm simply cycled his optics in disbelief, then he pointed at his own chest plate with a thunk. “ _Me?”_ he asked critically.

Somewhat stunned himself, Ultra Magnus leaned toward Megatron’s desk. “Sir, perhaps there is a better way to parse your question–”

“Perhaps, but there’s not a more _direct_ way,” Megatron said without so much as looking Ultra Magnus’ way. “Brainstorm, I want honesty in your answer. No repercussions will come of the truth. You have my word.”

“Oh, _that_ means a lot!” Brainstorm cried out, throwing up his arms. “Are you being serious right now? You think I would betray the ship? Betray _Rodimus_ after everything? _This is my home!_ And I almost lost it once on the Necrobot’s planet already!” 

“Perhaps you were approached beforehand, your values have shifted,” Megatron offered. “Perhaps the group became more militant in your absence. You have played both sides before.”

Brainstorm’s optics narrowed and he yanked off his faceplate viciously, the tearing of metal causing Magnus to flinch. “You see any insignia or flames on this? I don’t even have the Decepticon brand anymore, I removed it the moment I was placed on probation on the ship. _Sir.”_

Ultra Magnus could feel the air growing stale once more, neither bot on both sides of the room willing to relent.

“Some marks can only be seen at the spark,” Megatron said simply in return. 

“What are you fraggin’ getting at!?” Brainstorm demanded. 

“Why were you left relatively unscathed? Why didn’t Starscream take the opportunity to arrest you? Why were you the only member of Rodimus’ away team which did not make it into the caves with them before the attack?” Megatron asked in rapid fire succession.

“If you’re trying to say something to me, Megatron, you need to say it directly to my face!” Brainstorm snapped back angrily. “I am _not_ a traitor! I am _not!_ And being accused by _you,_ of all bots, is an indecency I can hardly muster!”

“And yet you know no bot has more reason to suspect,” Megatron replied darkly. 

Having heard more than enough, Magnus stepped between the two of them clearly, holding his hands up. “This cannot be continued,” he said plainly. “It is inappropriate and unseemly.”

“You mean _he_ is inappropriate and unseemly!” Brainstorm snarled, snapping his faceplate back onto his helm. “I’m done with this meeting if you are.”

“I have not received my answer yet,” Megatron said calmly. 

“Frag you, Megatron,” Brainstorm growled, heading out the door in a brash fashion. 

Flinching as the door slammed shut, Ultra Magnus then turned to his captain suspiciously. “Satisfied, Sir? I think given a few drinks at Swerve’s and one story to either Tailgate or Whirl and this entire fiasco will have alienated the entire ship from you.”

Megatron scowled. “Believe it or not, that was not the intention of the meeting,” he announced.

“I’d appreciate being informed as to what _was_ the intention then,” Magnus replied dryly.

“We already turned the recordings over to Optimus Prime,” Megatron reminded him. “ _That_ much of the investigation is out of our hands. But we can still act on what _we_ know. And what we know is that Brainstorm was _not_ heard on those recordings.”

“That makes him guilty?” Ultra Magnus asked skeptically.

“That makes him a link, and if he is _half_ the genius he makes himself out to be then he would understand that significance as well,” Megatron answered, denta gritting. “Nothing these menaces have done thus far has been without _reason._ And no one recognizes that more than myself.”

“I suppose not,” Ultra Magnus replied. “But do you think Brainstorm understands his significance even in that much?”

“Not after that exchange,” Megatron sighed. “That was honest. And Brainstorm does not seem to me to be quite a liar.”

“Only in matters of building time machines,” Ultra Magnus said dully. 

“Careful, Magnus,” Megatron said, rubbing at his optics. “Rodimus might not take kindly to you growing a sense of humor while he was gone.”

* * *

If nothing else, Optimus could always rely on Starscream’s flare for theatrics. 

He was suspicious from the moment he had been summoned by Cybertron’s appointed leader, after all there were few things that he and Megatron agreed on but not trusting Starscream had been high among them. But when he entered the room to a bleak darkness and found that the former Seeker leader was looking for a one-on-one, Optimus felt confidence flare up from his spark.

Starscream was hoping to corner him, but was _more_ afraid of witnesses should he corner _himself._

At the very least it meant that Windblade had been right in her suspicions. Though there was a morality question on whether or not to encourage her snooping any further. 

There was _definitely_ something Starscream was attempting to hide. 

“Took you long enough,” Starscream snapped as soon as the door was closed. 

“Apologies for any inconvenience,” Optimus Prime said with as little spark behind his words as possible. 

Turning toward Optimus, Starscream shared what was becoming his characteristic, world weary scowl. “I already know it’s next to useless to ask you what you’ve learned from the expedition _I_ sent you on to the Lost Light,” he said flatly. “Seeing as how your first instinct upon reaching Cybertron was to completely undermine my executive authority before the entire council.”

“Then I would say you do not understand my motives very well,” Optimus argued firmly. 

“Oh, _please,”_ Starscream sneered, rolling his optics. “Prime, there are few things in this or any other world a Cybertronian has ever stepped foot on that are _less_ understandable than your nobility and motives. I’m _certain_ you can explain away your motivations for assisting and defending a friend who got himself in over his head and found himself in the midsts of a plot to undo the very fabric and stability of our _very_ unstable current society.”

Optimus let out a long vent and shook his head. Starscream had developed very little over his time as leader, even less so than Optimus had once dared to hope that he would. 

The mech was incapable of accepting other points of view or reaching out for help in the idea of simple compassion and kindness. 

A ruler _not_ to be revered, one could argue very firmly. 

“If there is nothing you would ask of me then I would rather make myself more productive and useful _elsewhere_ , Starscream,” Optimus somewhat threatened. “I have much to discuss with the medical staff–”

“Oh, I’m _certain_ you do,” Starscream mocked. “Seems everyone is suddenly _very_ busy around your little second stringer protege.”

A flicker of anger quickly rose within Optimus and he turned to leer at the supposed leader of his planet, his _home._ But nothing came of it, though the reference to Bumblebee and the condescension toward Rodimus were not outside of Optimus’ grasp.

“A lot can be said about the allegiances we hold and in what order we hold them, Starscream,” Optimus said clearly. “I will not make apologies for where mine have come to lie.”

“Then let me make it abundantly clear, once again, just where _mine_ lie, Optimus Prime,” Starscream snapped back. “Mine are with the good of Cybertron. And I am not above wickedness or betrayal of lesser goals to ensure that. That is what makes me the leader of this new world’s order rather than _you._ And the more savagery and chaos your presence and the presence of your _followers_ brings to us, the longer my reign will flourish. Because if there’s one thing this world trusts _less_ than me as a ruler, it’s _war heroes_ who are still fighting.”

“That may be true,” Optimus admitted wearily, “but you were far from a bystander yourself, Starscream. And no one knows the scars of war and strategy as well as you. Which is why I know to come to you for this request rather than your council.”

Starscream hesitated, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. 

“You have me curious, I must admit,” he said lowly. “Do go on.”

“I believe that it is more and more apparent that this cleansing that Error and his cult have called for has to do with the Matrix and those who have bore it,” Optimus explained carefully. “I have reason to believe that it was the reason for targeting Rodimus psychologically, for targeting me physically, and for targeting _you_ politically.”

For a moment, a flicker of surprise came across Starscream’s face before hardening into anger. “You believe I am targeted. Prime, if you have evidence of a conspiracy against me and you haven’t been forthcoming with it, then I will charge you with being _part_ in that conspiracy–”

“It is apparent,” Optimus clarified. “These threats have done nothing for you politically, and I believe there is _reason_ behind Windblade’s suspicion of you in regards to Error. And I believe that the three of us are connected by one thing.”

“Please, I wore the Matrix _momentarily_ compared to the two of you,” Starscream scoffed. “That putz _Hot Rod_ saw to that himself. Before Megatron put a hole exactly where that Matrix belonged. What an _irony_ that they now serve together thanks to _your_ intervention–”

“The amount of time would not matter to those radicalized enough to believe that a valid response to _any_ perversion of Primus’ will is worth murdering and slaughtering over,” Optimus warned. “So if there _are not_ any connections as Windblade suspects there are, I believe it would be within your best interest to keep it that way.”

Starscream narrowed his optics. “You have a plan, I presume?”

“I will use myself and the Matrix to draw out Error, somewhere away from the city’s population and away from the energon supplies to prevent any threats of spreading the disease they have weaponized,” Optimus proposed grimly. “In return, all that I ask is that there be more guards for the medical ward and for yourself.”

“For your fanboy and your enemy,” Starscream surmised. “How kind of you, Optimus.”

“I simply do not wish for Cybertron to fall into chaos without a decisive leader,” he clarified, He could only hope that his tone hid any disgust he still felt at his core from having to regard Starscream as such. 

“I can grant it,” Starscream announced. “But you won’t be going alone on this suicide mission.”

“But–” Optimus began only for Starscream’s hand to come up.

“I’m sending another member of the Council to, at the very least, bare witness to this _catastrophic_ idea of yours. You and I may not think much of the Matrix and those who have touched it, but you are _correct_ about the sway it holds for others. In the _unfortunate_ circumstances that you should fall, I would rather have someone I trust nearby to take the mantle for you rather than this genocidal maniac Error,” Starscream clarified. 

“In that case, I will go with whoever you assign,” Optimus said regretfully.

“And while you are gone, I _will_ do my best to uncover whatever evidence it is that you have been so keen on keeping from me that you found on the Lost Light,” Starscream warned, a clever smirk on his face. “So don’t think we’re done with these _elating_ conversations just yet, Optimus Prime.”

“Neither of us should be so lucky,” Optimus responded grimly. 


	16. 3.6: A Case for Another Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a heck of a chapter, but we’re finally finishing up Part III! So yay! Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait. And again to everyone who has sent me encouragement and kind words I cannot thank you enough for all of it. The support is genuinely just wonderful, thank you. 
> 
> Special thanks to @snozzlefrog, @secretlystephaniebrown, Isame, AntaresofJuly, and squireofgeekdom for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

“My circuits absolutely must have been crossed when Starscream asked me to go on this suicide mission. There really _isn’t_ any other explanation,” Knock Out lamented as he walked alongside of the giant Prime as they ventured further through the undergrounds of the city. 

Optimus Prime was something of an enigma to Knock Out still, in no short order due to Knock Out’s lack of intellectual interest with old mythologies and those who utilized them for power. 

Other colonies might have been Primaphiles, but Velocitron certainly had not been. At least not in _his_ circles. Function and _excellence_ of function was what mattered. 

And as the colony’s foremost scientist and chief medical officer, he had grown something close to apathy for the sentiment of Primus and the Guiding Hand. 

“I am grateful for your service to the Council and the duty as you perform it with me today, Counselor Knock Out,” Optimus Prime said dauntingly as they continued. “I had been concerned when Starscream demanded Council oversight of this mission, but your personal investment in this matter has delivered me much more comfort.”

Knock Out shuttered his optics before glaring in the Prime’s direction. “Up to date on our messy Council of Worlds gossip, are we? I would have thought that such rumors would be _beneath_ a holy mech.”

“I consider myself fallible,” Optimus Prime responded.

“Glad _someone_ does,” Knock Out huffed. 

“I also meant nothing but the utmost respect for you, Councilmech,” Prime continued to assure him. “Simply that your work in combatting the Plague and your open disdain for the mechanized warfare puts me at ease that we are here for the same purpose.”

Knock Out continued to look at the Prime rather unimpressed. “And you don’t find my dedication to be selfish in nature? That my only investment in the Outbreak was due to my own Conjunx suffering at its hand?”

“I believe it is not _selfishness_ but _selflessness_ which would inspire anybot to become a doctor,” Optimus said gently. “You are a quick mech, and you fit the Velocitronian aesthetic very well. You would have had much social standing without becoming a medical professional. That is the sort of character I take comfort in.”

“Tch,” Knock Out rolled his optics. “You don’t consider yourself a holy mech, but you have the naïvety of one certainly,” he scoffed. “You’ve probably not had a single bad thought cross your processor in a millennia.”

The Prime grew reflectively quiet, his own optics narrowing as they looked ahead. “I am far from either holy _or_ naïve, Knock Out. Even by your measurements here. I simply am good friends with doctors and happen to respect their judgment quite a lot.”

"Hm, fine, press forward with the humble route. We’ll see how successfully it wins me over as a new acolyte for you to lead to some fleshy-infested off world colony. Just so it’s clear, _don’t_ be getting your hopes up for that,” Knock Out responded snidely. “I am a mech of commitments, after all. You’ve said it yourself–”

“Councilor,” the Prime said darkly, a stark contrast to the tone that Knock Out had grown quite used to. “I am feeling vibrations up ahead. We are not alone. I would suggest you fall back behind me.”

Knock Out squinted slightly at the large bot as he stepped back. Optimus readied a laser rifle he had brought with them and caused even more confusion for the Velocitronian. 

“Vibrations? What could you mean? Like the sewers are shifting? Something through the energon pools?” Knock Out asked curiously.

“The Matrix is sensitive to sparks,” Optimus said lowly in return. “Even in its partial capacity as I wear it now, I have become familiar with its reactions to sparks that are familiar.”

Surprised, Knock Out kept closer to the Prime. “I must admit, I skipped out quite a bit on any sort of mythological courses. Never saw much reason to attend. So could you explain that again? Though the Matrix you are capable of _sensing_ others?”

“Not so much,” Prime said lowly. “Only that I am familiar with the small alterations the Matrix undergoes in the presence of sparks. And those I know intimately I have grown a _draw_ toward.”

“And? You’re feeling that _draw?”_ Knock Out pressed as they rounded the corner.

“No,” he said, seeming nearly as perplexed as Knock Out felt. “I sense _confusion._ Because these sparks… they are not _familiar_ to the Matrix. It does not know them.”

Confused, the doctor was ready to ask just what such a finding could _mean_ when there was suddenly a bright light from ahead. 

“No Hand of Primus should be blind, even in the dark,” a deep, rumbling voice called out as suddenly more and more light became apparent around them.

Knock Out gritted his denta – that was no _mystery_ voice for long. He had memorized that tone from the messages over the view screens and throughout Cybertron. The terror they had caused, and the personal injury it had brought to Breakdown. 

“Error’s here. This has been a trap!” Knock Out declared as the large red and black bot finally stood before them, hands turned upward and shooting a bright fire that lit up the entirety of the undergrounds, showing off legions of the red-and-black followers. “Curse that Starscream! I understand him wanting to get rid of _you,”_ he said, pointing a sharp finger to Optimus before waving his hand toward his chest, “but what in Cybertron could possibly be won by getting rid of _me?”_

Ignoring Knock Out pretty much entirely, Optimus Prime stepped closer toward the flaming zealot. “Error,” he said in a low voice, “you have continued to irreparably harm Cybertron and the relations it has with its colonies. You claim to be doing this in the name of a cleansing – in the name of a _Prime._ I am standing here as witness today to let you know, there have been so-called Primes with these convictions before you or I. And I have made it my sworn duty to ensure that such ilk will not happen again. Not so long as a single spark from today still exists.”

A smile curled on the dark faceplate of Error. It was enough to make Knock Out shudder. 

“If that is your dream, Optimus Prime, then I am afraid I have to inform you, I have _seen_ what the future holds. And what it holds is _exactly_ what you want,” Error explained, stepping toward them with his daunting girth. “Which is why I am here to unwrite it.”

Optimus narrowed his optics, apparently trying to make sense of the ramblings, but Knock Out was beyond that. 

“If your plan is to release another horror on any mech that are on this planet, I’m afraid you’ve ran out of luck,” Knock Out announced, drawing Error’s attention from the Prime momentarily. It also grabbed Optimus’ attention temporarily, before he saw just what Knock Out was doing. “You see, _I_ am the chief science officer of Velocitron, and one of the most accomplished medical practitioners in all of the cosmos. I _solved_ for the strands of Red Rust which you had weaponized and left research notes so thorough and so completely understandable that any dunce left in the medical ward would be able to follow my steps exactly. I’m afraid no matter your grievances with gods or Chosen Ones, it’s a completely average, genius mech which has thwarted you.”

Error’s piercing red eyes focused on Knock Out. “Death has many options,” the mysterious figure announced. “Disease was to cleanse us of the weak,” he explained before turning his flaming hand toward Knock Out, “but a _Smelter_ melts away the impure.”

Knock Out was beginning to regret nearly _all_ of his life choices, but _especially_ any that involved agreeing to work with Starscream, when Optimus finally took the distraction himself and lunged toward Error. 

Error realized his misjudgment moments too late and found himself deadlocked with Prime, flames searing around them as they clashed. 

While Optimus was singed, he hardly flinched at it and soon had the laser rifle which he had brought along pointed directly for Error’s waist and began firing multiple shots that sent Error flying back.

There was a commotion around them and suddenly the observant followers of Error leaped forward, animating and coming to life to surround Optimus and Knock Out. 

"Knock Out, handle the acolytes!” Prime ordered before delivering a fierce punch across Error’s faceplate. “I shall focus on the leader. This ends _today!”_

Looking around as they became increasingly surrounded, Knock Out felt like the Prime had more than a few bolts loose. 

“Handle how!? Challenge them to a race? I’m a _doctor,_ not a _fighter!”_ Knock Out attempted to argue before transforming quickly and beginning to race through the streams of energon, dodging and ducking out of the way of several swings and attacks along the way from their attackers. 

His mind was in full retreat mode, but as Knock Out dared to glance behind himself, he realized that he was far from alone in the undergrounds as the blind followers were in hot pursuit. 

“Oh, you _must_ be joking,” he groaned before skidding to just enough of a halt to execute a sharp turn and face the oncoming crowd. “Come on. Come on you _tinker toys._ Just a little closer…”

As soon as the other bots were prepared to lunge, Knock Out floored it and sped out from under the crowd once more, the traction of his back wheels dousing the lot in the flowing energon just before Knock Out made it clear and leaped mid-transformation onto the edge of the tunnel, out of the energon pools.

“I don’t suppose any of you learned what happens to electricity when it hits large energon deposits in medical school.” Knock Out called out smugly, pulling out his favored staff, twirling it a few times as the crowd closed in on him again. 

He then ignited the shockers on the staff and plunged them into the liquified energon where all of his would-be attackers were still standing in. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said with a smirk. “It _spreads.”_

Each and every one of the attackers began to short out, one by one, going rigid, some transforming in the confusion, some merely cycling off. 

The moment it was clear to Knock Out that they were not going to be giving him further challenge, he removed his staff from the energon and looked back toward where the clashing of the giants was still loudly ongoing. 

“To leave or not to leave,” Knock Out mused before sighing and transforming. “As if that was ever even a _question.”_

Racing back toward the Prime, Knock Out saw for himself just what sort of Prime survived the horrors of a millennia of civil war and carnage. While Error was nothing to shirk at, Prime was agile in spite of his size. He moved quickly, each hit landing hard, and try as Error might, he could not completely guard the gaping hole in his collapsing center. 

A hole which, of course, was exposing quite the supply of energon dripping from Error. 

“I _do_ hate repeating myself,” Knock Out sighed as he transformed again and unpacked his recharged staff. “Breakdown says it’s why I’ll never go through with my plans to retire and become a professor.”

When the Prime gave yet another devastating blow that still failed to knock Error down, Knock Out saw his opportunity. 

“Optimus!” Knock Out called, igniting the electric shock of his staff as the Prime looked his way. “Any of those _doctor friends_ tell you what happens when energon meets electricity?” he asked as he tossed the staff in Prime’s direction. 

With ease, Optimus Prime caught the staff at its center and turned the electrically charged end toward Error before jabbing into the refuse of energon that was exposed. 

Error let out a howling cry, shock from the electricity and heat from his own flames letting off a flare of color across the underground. 

There was such a danger of explosion then and there that the Prime backed off from the method of attack and instead raced to Knock Out’s location, coming between Knock Out and the possible explosion. 

But Error’s flame dissipated and he fell to his knees and hands, heaving as shocks sparked around his entire body. 

There was silence and fear from what of Error’s acolytes were still standing by as witness. 

“This is _not_ how it is supposed to be. This is _not_ how things become unwritten!” Error roared in spite of his obvious injuries. 

“Yes, you can keep saying those things, that does not make them sound more coherent,” Knock Out informed him snidely.

Angrily, Error looked up, reaching toward his subspace. 

“It is time to end this, Error, you have lost,” Optimus Prime recommended just before the mech pulled something strangely unexpected from his subspace.

Knock Out tilted his helm. “Is… Is that a _briefcase?”_ he asked.

“You don’t control what time it is, Optimus Prime,” Error sneered himself before opening the briefcase. “ _I_ do.”

Without warning, an explosion of purple smoke consumed the underground, causing Optimus and Knock Out both to step back. And by the time it cleared, Error was gone and what was left of his followers were frantically scattering. 

“What in the Pit is going _on_ here!?” Knock Out demanded, looking around. He then noticed that Prime was starring coldly toward where two shadowy figures escape in the chaos of the rest. “What? Your _magnetism_ or whatever telling you there’s more unfamiliar sparks to puzzle you?”

“No,” Optimus Prime said lowly. “Two _very_ familiar ones. Ones which I know do not make sense.”

Knock Out squinted his optics but didn’t press further. 

There was enough strangeness already.

* * *

Rung had written up an entire case study on his captain without the mech ever managing to make a _single_ appointment that had supposedly been mandatory. It was Rung’s job, and he was good at it. Even if his ethics were keeping him from embracing a title. 

He was not there because of his case study or files. He was not there as a doctor. So far as Rung was concerned, with the way everything had happened, he was there by Rodimus’ berth as a friend before all else. 

“I’m here just to talk, Rodimus,” Rung reminded him softly as the younger mech rested his head against his left palm. 

Still, his right arm hung uselessly to the side. 

The repairs had been slow going, as Ratchet had explained it to Rung, there was damage to the deep mesh of Rodimus’ protoform. Damage that was always rather severe and tender for a Forged mech. And because it was delicate, because it had a certain amount of self-healing, albeit limited, they were wary of reconstructing his full armor and kibble that had melted down or broken after the attack. Too much weight he couldn’t support could put more strain on his spark.

It made looking at a friend in such physical pain difficult. But ultimately Rung was not there to help a friend with the physical part, not fully.

Rodimus’ pain extended to more than the _physical._ And a spark could shrink due to more things than stress. 

“I told you to call me _Hot Rod,”_ Rodimus seethed, head still buried against his palm. 

“You’re right. I apologize,” Rung said softly. “We can talk about _that_ if you want. Why you want to be called _Hot Rod_ again.”

“Why does it _need_ to be talked about?” he demanded. “It was my name before. It’s my name now. Who the hell just lets someone _else_ change their name for them some day without input?”

Caught off guard, Rung put a hand to his intake. “That makes sense. But it _also_ sounds rather resentful. Do you resent Optimus Prime having changed your name?”

“What?” Rodimus asked, looking up weakly. There was a certain dullness to the lights of his optics. Something almost not registering. “What are you talking about?”

“Your name was changed in a ceremony. It was _honoring_ you for having carried the Matrix. Optimus Prime gave you the name _Rodimus_ in a sense of respect,” Rung reminded him before narrowing his optics. “Do you remember the event differently? Is there reason for you to resent that moment?”

"How would I…” Rodimus began before trailing off. His working finger curled tighter against his helm. “Your question doesn’t make any sense. My processor hurts. Why can’t you let me rest?”

“You’ve rested a long time,” Rung reminded him. “But if you’re too tired to talk, that’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Stop telling me that. You don’t know what I’ve been through,” Rodimus snapped viciously. 

Rung looked the speedster over before folding his hands together. “We’ve been through very much together, Rodimus. The Necrobot’s planet alone–”

“Stop, you’re hurting my head,” Rodimus said darkly.

“Why do you feel so aggravated by memories?” Rung pressed. 

“I don’t _know,”_ Rodimus seethed. “I just _am._ Why isn’t that enough for you to leave me alone? What kind of doctor are you?”

Frowning, Rung vented sharply. “I am afraid we both know that I no longer claim to be a doctor, Hot Rod.”

“No, we both _did not_ know that,” Rodimus said sharply.

“You were there,” Rung continued. “You _should_ remember why it happened–”

“ _Stop telling me what I remember and what I don’t! You don’t even know what happened!”_ Rodimus roared, finally looking up from his hand and turning in his berth enough that Rung could observe the way his right arm dragged lifelessly behind his body’s swerving.

“Why can’t you use your right arm, Hot Rod?” Rung asked softly. “First Aid informed me he checked the circuits. There were all repaired correctly.”

“I _can’t_ use it, why are you asking me that _again?”_ Rodimus asked in frustration.

“Because I need an answer before I clear you for more repairs,” Rung reminded him. “Why can’t you use your arm, Hot Rod?”

Rodimus’ gaze was piercing as he stared intently at Rung. He then pressed his mouth tightly together, forming a straight line. 

“It sinned,” Rodimus answered cryptically. 

Taking another sharp vent, Rung shook his head. “Rodimus–”

“ _Hot Rod!”_

 _“_ Can you remember what _Shadowplay_ is?” Rung asked firmly. 

Rodimus’ good fist flew out and slammed into the wall beside him. “ _Stop asking me questions!”_ he roared just before a flare of fire came out from the very fist. 

The flames startled Rodimus nearly twice as much as they had Rung, and he immediately withdrew, as if trying to escape his own hand. He collapsed his head into his hand again, curling inward as he shook violently. “I’m sorry,” he coughed out. “I’m sorry.”

With his left hand covering his face and his right hand hanging uselessly beside him, Rodimus left the right side of his face exposed. It was the most heavily damaged part of his entire body. There had been whispers from the medical team about what could be done to save his face structure without lifting the entire plate. The mesh and protoform was so deeply melted and burned. 

And, suddenly, Rung could see things as clear as day.

“Hot Rod,” he said gently, dropping beside his friend and putting his hands securely on Rodimus’ shoulders. “Shadowplay is a way in which mechs can have their personality, _memories,_ altered. Like mnemosurgery, but more deconstructive. Hot Rod… _Rodimus_ … we believe you are a victim of it. And we believe that the reason you aren’t using your right hand, the reason you are fearful of fire, has something to do with it.”

While he did not uncurl himself, Rodimus looked up enough to meet Rung’s optics. “Why me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Rung admitted. “But it may have something to do with the reason you burned your own face.”

Going rigid, Rodimus backed away from Rung’s grip. “You… you think _I_ did this? To _myself?”_ he demanded, loudly.

“You said your right hand had sinned,” Rung reminded him. “What did you mean by that? Do you mean it burned someone other than yourself? Is there something you remember–”

“I want you to leave,” Rodimus said coldly. 

“I believe you know something, even in spite of the _Shadowplay_ , and I believe that information led you to punishing yourself. Even _more_ directly than the recklessness that you usually use as substitute for punishment. And I believe you feel badly enough about these circumstances that you cannot tell them apart any longer from the source of your guilt for the last five million years – _Nyon.”_

“I want you to leave,” Rodimus repeated. “ _Now.”_

Rung did not have to look toward the door to know that the commotion had brought Drift and what was there of the team working on Rodimus, he got to his pedes and walked toward them with a grave look.

Drift’s expression was not one that promised any receptiveness to Rung’s appeals, but at the very least he pressed forward into the room to check on Rodimus rather than linger among the others. 

It was more prudent to discuss matters with Ratchet and First Aid by any measure. 

“He was explosive and confrontational, he’s not gonna be receptive to anything else you’ve got planned,” Ratchet agued, apparently predicting Rung’s recommendations before the first words left his mouth. “The next surgery we do I’m taking him for processor repair.”

“Shadowplay is not that simple and, besides that, you know that the recoil of him remembering anything that _might_ be true about his current guilt could send him back into self-harm,” Rung warned.

“There is not any way that all of his injuries are self-inflicted,” First Aid continued to debate.

“Only the worst ones,” Ratchet responded grimly. 

“Which plays into my concern,” Rung said simply. “Rodimus either _did_ something or _believes_ he did something so terrible – in his words, _sinful_ – that he not only deserved to punish himself, but to no longer have the name Optimus Prime bestowed on him. Considering his need for validation, that is a _powerful_ change in his character,” Rung explained, reaching up to clean his lenses. “And there is most likely a trigger left. His outbursts at seeing his own Outlier ability functioning were too much of a cue for it not to be some sort of plant.”

First Aid held a hand to his faceplate, deep in contemplation. “He seems explosive overall. Unwilling to cooperate for his own good. Could that be any part of it? And is it possible that at least the level of sensitivity could be somehow mitigated through repairs to his processor?”

“There’s a good amount of _explosive_ that’s just natural Rodimus being an aft,” Ratchet pointed out grumpily. 

First Aid glared back. “I’m _aware_ of that, Ratchet, but he’s _more_ that than normal.”

“Could be traumatic response. You see it all the time after the _worst_ battles during the War,” Ratchet responded dismissively.

“I _know that,_ Ratchet, but I’m simply asking for another opinion!” First Aid groaned out.

“And I think there’s good reason to have that concern,” Rung attempted to mediate, holding up his servos passively. “But I would still caution against any neurologic interference at the moment. This is something that is both _extensive_ and _incomplete._ There are parallels his memories are drawing and swaths of information that he doesn’t recognize or at least doesn’t recall easily. The frustration is _hurting him_ at the moment already when normal _Shadowplay_ would keep the victim from complete awareness even of full catatonic trigger phrases.”

"So it’s a mine field,” First Aid surmised. “And we don’t know where to step even though we _have_ to go forward if we want any _hope_ of fixing what damages have been done.”

“That’s the rub,” Ratchet said, exasperated. 

Rung could feel the stress biting at all of them as the tension grew, but he held back on further suggestion. He was _not_ a doctor anymore. He was a friend – a very, _very_ concerned friend with insight as to what was happening. But he lost claim to speak on the same level as Ratchet and First Aid. And he had lost it willingly.

In truth, the former psychiatrist could not have thought of a way to make the current situation _more_ complicated, the doors to the makeshift medical wing opened to the loud footfall of none other than Optimus Prime himself, the doctor mech Rung had seen before just behind him. 

They both were worse for ware. 

“Optimus, what the frag happened to you?” Ratchet asked, confused and alarmed in that way only Ratchet could show at once.

“I need to question Rodimus, is he able?” Prime demanded shortly.

“No,” Rung answered defensively. “I doubt he would be able to fully and truthfully answer any question you would ask him to begin with. But even so, he’s exhausted from a session.”

“I need to ask him if he knows anything about what is happening with Error. He just escaped us again, and I doubt that the current followers we have detained will be any more willing to answer than the last,” Prime explained hurriedly. “Rodimus on the recordings–”

Rung looked between them all. “Recordings? What recordings?” he demanded.

“Optimus got them from the Lost Light, thinks they’re connected to what happened since it recorded audio from the attack,” Ratchet explained lowly.

“And you didn’t turn over this evidence to the investigative body!?” Knock Out cried out. “Don’t any of you think I won’t be reporting this to the council–”

“How could you not inform me of those recordings?” Rung demanded. “You asked for my help, you knew enough to lead me in the direction of Shadowplay, but you didn’t fully inform me of _everything?_ I could have used that information–”

“Rung, we’ll talk about it later,” Ratchet snapped. He then turned his full attention back on Optimus. “Why do you need Rodimus?”

“Because in the recordings he mentioned a _case,”_ Optimus said lowly. “And I need to k now if it is anything like the _briefcase_ that Error just used to escape from us.”

Immediately, Rung and First Aid perked up. They glanced to each other then back to Optimus. 

“You don’t need to speak to Rodimus about that,” Rung informed the Prime. “I’ve used one of these _briefcases_ before. They were a Brainstorm invention. It’s… well, they’re time machines.”

Optimus and Knock Out stared at Rung in complete disbelief.

* * *

If Starscream’s face had contorted any further he would have been at risk of breaking his optics. Instead he gripped onto the armrests of his throne as if they were the only things capable of keeping him back from lunging at the two in front of him.

“What do you _mean_ that this is some sort of _timeline altering caper!?”_ he all but screeched at Optimus Prime and Knock Out. “Does that even remotely make sense to your processors!?”

“I am beginning to question whether _anything_ on Cybertron adds up,” Knock Out said with a flippant roll of his own optics. “This planet has more blown sparks than a mauled speedster.”

Starscream’s attention quickly deferred toward Optimus instead. He made it easy by simply standing there and looking almost expectantly at Starscream. It was the sort of smug high-and-mightiness that Starscream had come to hate the most in all those that doubted him for good reason.

“Do you have _nothing_ to say for you ridiculous conclusion?” Starscream demanded. 

“Only that, as I understand things, time cannot be altered, merely assigned its place,” Optimus Prime said loftily. “But our current enemy may not know that and be attempting to make changes, alter lives, without any awareness that he is doomed to whatever outcome has already been predetermined.”

Bumblebee let out a small laugh from Starscream’s side. _I’d say._

Growling, Starscream leaned his helm against one of his hands. “Everyone _shut up,_ you’re not making any sense. Because what it _sounds_ like you’re saying is that nothing we do against this current threat matters because history is already written and you’re asking me to sit back on my throne and _allow it_ and give further excuses for my critics to cry out for my spark’s extinction.”

“Not all together an unexpected outcome given the way things have been going by all accounts,” Knock Out unhelpfully snarked. 

“We are not suggesting that at all, we must continue to face the threat and do everything we can to save Cybertron and its people,” Optimus Prime answered instead. “In this case, our enemy has an advantage we needed to know about – the knowledge of what is _supposed_ to happen. And in order to make up for what we do not have, it is vital that we learn whatever we can about the motivations we just revealed for ourselves.”

Looking up darkly, Starscream narrowed his optics. “And how, pray tell, did you learn of this information, Prime? Just assumptions after watching this Error character pull his magic smoke trick again?”

“It matches descriptions of a previous and similar encounter on the Lost Light,” Optimus explained. 

“The Lost–” Starscream began before further scrutinizing the Prime. “There is a common denominator when it comes to the gigantic _shrapnel_ in my side. And I cannot help but note that they almost _always_ have to be friends of _yours,_ Optimus Prime.”

“Perhaps a coincidence,” Optimus conceded.

“You never seemed to be one for coincidences _before,”_ Starscream snapped. “Can’t help but notice that this change of spark is around when your allies cause trouble.”

“You are right to be skeptical, and you are right to be protective of Cybertron. That should be your foremost duty as a leader, Starscream, and loathe as I may be to sometimes admit it, it is one I fully believe you wish to accomplish well,” Optimus continued. “But I am not using _coincidence_ dismissively, I am pointing out that if our enemies have an advantage which they are fully prepared to press for, then so should we.”

“What advantages do we have? A mutinous lot on a starship seemingly doomed to distraction?” Starscream demanded.

 _Just a bit harsh,_ Bumblebee sighed. _But not unfounded._

Knock Out was standing further back, observing the argument between Starscream and Optimus with disconnected intrigue. 

“I believe we may have those on our side that _also_ know the future that is to come,” Optimus explained lowly. “And we have to trust that their attempts to maintain our futures are pure.”

Annoyed at the word puzzles being made, Starscream pinched between the bridge of his optics. “ _What_ mechs do we have on our side with precognition, Prime? Tell me, I’m genuinely curious. Is it you, with your grand visions as a holy Prime? One of your followers touched by Primus himself to know of what is ahead of us all? Or did Adaptus bless some new unforeseen class of mechs which are the foreseers to our society now?”

Prime’s optics narrowed.

Letting out a whistle, Knock Out tilted his helm back. “Wow. And here I thought _I_ was the nonbeliever of the room.” He then turned suspicious eyes on Starscream. “Aren’t _you_ some Chosen One?”

“That is unrelated to the current matter at hand,” Starscream snapped. 

“I do not believe our advantage is a holy campaign to be sneered at, Starscream,” Optimus said firmly.

“My pardon, then, you must have come to the wrong _Chosen One_ to boast about your non-plans for this unprecedented threat to our species,” Starscream growled. 

"What I _believe,_ Starscream, is that there are already someone with the same advantages as our enemy working on our side,” Optimus made clear. “And I am seeking your permission to move forward with looking for them so that we can all be on the same page.”

Starscream scowled. “And why should that privilege be yours?”

“Because there is only one way to find them if I am right, and it is a way that only I can do,” Optimus answered, placing a hand on his chest. “With the Matrix.”

Looking toward Knock Out, Starscream wondered if it was simply him that was at a loss, and while not entirely convinced, Knock Out did not seem particularly surprised either. 

“Fine,” Starscream said. “But you had better not have a hand in any of this, Optimus Prime. And you had better not be covering up for your friends either.”

“If our secret helpers are who I believe they are,” Optimus said lowly, “then I don’t imagine they’re capable of keeping cover for much longer regardless of intentions.”

Starscream tilted his helm. Whatever _that_ was supposed to mean, he didn’t like it. That much was for sure. 


	17. 4.1: Talks of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I’m actually staying consistent : ) I’m so glad to be able to update another chapter for you guys, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Special thanks to @snozzlefrog, squireofgeekdom, Isame, and AnteresofJuly for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part IV: The Right to Lead  
Chapter 4.1: Talks of Home**

Going to Starscream was never exactly an action that Windblade took lightly, but she found herself with little other choice in the matter. 

With the daunting task ahead of her, she vented quickly and entered into his private quarters, more than ready to have to justify her presence to a dozen o so guards before ever _getting_ to the Cybertronian leader. 

Somewhat to her surprise, there was no such guard. And Starscream, standing with his shoulder against the entryway of his balcony, didn’t so much as move to acknowledge someone had entered the chamber as Windblade came in. 

He was looking out onto the city like it was the last tim the sun would set on it.

“Starscream,” she called out when she found her voice once again. “We need to talk. We need to talk about the Council of Worlds… I’m not involved with the investigations or anything. I’m not prying – as per _your_ ruling – but I am concerned about our shared endeavor to keep these colonies together–”

“They were never _together,_ Windblade. That was the point of building the Council of Worlds. To expand outward and set these nonconforming, unappreciative colonists back under _some_ sense of order with the rest of _my_ people,” Starscream snapped. 

Surprised, Windblade cycled her optics and looked at Starscream almost warily. “It’s… It isn’t like you to wear your intentions on your brand like that.”

“Ha,” Starscream looked back toward Windblade at last, there seemed to be a tired dullness to his optics. “I am also not one to expend energy unnecessarily, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Windblade stared at him, not backing down. “No. You’re not.”

“And you also think you have me and all my intentions, better or _worse,_ figured out?” Starscream asked. He didn’t give her the time to answer, though. “So why bother lying to you? Why waste the time? Especially when you are, overall, considered just as if not even _more_ suspicious than myself.”

In other words, _who would believe you that doesn’t already_

Venting again, Windblade gripped onto the tablet she had walked in with. “I’m here about the _Council._ I think it’s in _danger,_ Starscream. With all the damage that has been done publicly and because some colonists are scared that even once the gates are open again, they don’t know _when_ the next attack could take place and leave everyone stranded on a world they weren’t expecting to be. There needs to be confidence given to the councilors that they can, in turn, give their homes and leaders to spread–”

“You’re not supposed to be involved with anything with these cults!” Starscream growled. 

“If you would just _listen_ to me you’d understand that I’m not talking about the cults, I’m talking about the _Council!_ And that concerns you because you’re losing your grip on everything we’ve built up so far _and you know_ that the only way to get it back is by working _with_ me, Starscream!” Windblade warned haughtily. “So get _over_ it and let me help!”

The Seeker stared at her from across the chamber with an unreadable expression. 

Energon was pumping through her strongly, but Windblade held her ground almost despite herself. She kept her eyes set on Starscream and waited for him to make the next move.

At last, he reached up to his helm and let out a short laugh. A _scoff._

It took everything within Windblade not to fly off the proverbial handle at the dismissive reaction. “I’m serious here, Starscream. The Council of Worlds is at a breaking point and the only way it’s going to change is if Cybertron can secure loyalty–”

“Secure _loyalty,”_ he quoted with a roll of his optics. “You surely have heard of what’s happened to those in the past who have shown me _true_ loyalty even with my current title, haven’t you?”

Windblade felt her temper rise. “Enough of this, Starscream! I couldn’t care less about your personal, selfish need to have every last mech in the cosmos bend the knee to you. I’m trying to keep these _worlds together._ And if you can’t see the value of that even in your selfish lens, then you’re more a fool than what everyone will think of you as once things are completely fallen apart. And you’ll _deserve_ that gaudy crown!”

“Maybe I will,” he said, shortening the distance between them with only a few, intimidating steps. “But can _you_ answer me this, Windblade? Where do _your_ oh-so-important loyalties lie?” 

She glared at him. “With Caminus and whatever is best for it.”

“And the Camiens,” he continued, getting closer. “Where do their loyalties lie if not with Cybertron – with the very source of energon and goods and trade that they were dying with before?”

Still not backing down, Windblade gripped her tablet tighter. “With the Prime–”

“Whoever the Prime may or may not be,” he concluded. “It truly disturbs you that after years and years of expectations, after becoming a religious figure to your own planet, you finally meet your ancestral home and find that it is lacking in fundamentalism and reverence. That the religious head you once worshipped is as embittered and flawed as the rest of this broken world. It disturbs you that _seeing the light_ means seeing the _truth.”_

Squinting her optics at him, Windblade couldn’t help but turn her face slightly away despite her resilience to stand ground. “What point are you trying to make here, Starscream? You rarely lack one,” she urged. 

“My point is that allegiances are more than basic necessity,” Starscream said plainly. “My point is that there is an essence of _blindness_ to even Caminus’ loyalty to the Council and to Cybertron. Can you _guarantee_ that should Optimus Prime fall and Error prove himself to be keeper of the Matrix that your Mistress of the Flame and Torchbearers and the _whole nine yards_ wouldn’t concede support to someone different?” 

Windblade’s mouth opened but she couldn’t vocalize a thing. She stared at Starscream, uncertain of where the question of loyalties would ultimately lead them.

Starscream stared darkly at her for a few moments before venting in a huff, a knowing smirk on his face, and turning away from Windblade. “Of course you can’t. Because we both know that this entire alliance and Council is just the _blind leading the blind._ And there is hardly anything anyone on the Council can properly do about it.”

As Starscream turned for her, Windblade realized she was losing any chance to talk about the matters at hand. She held up the tablet. “Starscream, the Council is in danger of dissolving–”

“It won’t,” Starscream said with a toss of his hand. “Everyone will moan and groan until things settle. We all have something the others once. And I’m _confident_ that ulterior motives will prevail. I, personally, am _testament_ to that. You may leave now.”

Letting out a frustrated growl, Windblade stormed out of the chamber and didn’t even acknowledge that Chromia had once more found a way to catch up with her and wait just outside the door. The bodyguard kept in step every moment after. 

“Would you stop taking off without me?” Chromia asked in annoyance.

“Starscream is losing control and he’s willing to let everything I’ve worked for burn down with him so he doesn’t have to acknowledge it,” Windblade said, looking toward Chromia. “I don’t have time to be protected, there won’t be anything to protect if I can’t somehow fix this mess, Chromia.”

Chromia looked at her for a moment before crossing her arms. “Ironhide has been set up outside of the medical unit for a bit. I can get him to let us in on the grounds of checking up on any progress with disease control. It’ll give you some cover to question everyone about the cult dealings and talk to Knock Out on official business–”

“You don’t have to provide me cover,” Windblade assured Chromia. “I don’t care if Starscream wants me involved with the investigation or not anymore. I’m involved now… _again.”_

Chromia sighed, but Windblade didn’t miss the faintest hint of a smile on her face. 

* * *

The flakes of paint were still on his surviving armor, which made them things to pick at in boredom. _And_ in times where what conversation was being had was just not of any interest to him. 

 _This_ conversation happened to be of no interest to Hot Rod. 

“It would be much quicker to have a professional buffing before a repaint,” Rung offered in that genuine tone that was coming to drive Hot Rod absolutely _mad._ It was just too _knowing_ somehow. “Less painful than picking the paint off yourself.”

Hot Rod dully rolled his optics toward the former psychiatrist and leered at him. “Is a _buffing_ going to be allowed any quicker than anything _else_ since _Doctor Hatch_ and _Doctor Job_ won’t let me do _any fragging thing_ until I’m ‘ _fixed?’”_ he asked darkly. 

Rung’s calm demeanor didn’t slip. “We both know that Ratchet and First Aid are working their finest for you, Hot Rod. And that their recommendations are made in hopes of aiding your progress as their patient. Not out of any malice or foul intent.”

“But would they let me be buffed?” Hot Rod stressed.

Rung clicked his pen against his tablet a few times. It was a very small, very _important_ sign of irritation that Hot Rod had finally picked up on. There was the smallest bit of satisfaction that ran through his entire system knowing he was finally getting under Rung’s armor. 

“Most likely it is something they would put off until they are able to rebuild more of your frame and ensure you can support that sort of weight and pressure,” Rung answered finally. “Caution is sometimes the best option with medicine.”

Optics narrowing their gaze on Rung, Hot Rod made a point of chipping off another, larger flake of paint and daring not to flinch even as it pulled. 

After a few moments of silence, Rung tilted his head. “Do you feel more accomplished?”

Confused, Hot Rod looked back at him. “Accomplished?”

“After harming yourself,” Rung said seriously. “Does the infliction of it give you any sort of satisfaction? What kind?”

“You think I’m harming myself?” Hot Rod couldn’t help but laugh.

“I know you are,” Rung answered. 

“You think paint chips hurt?” Hot Rod growled, flipping like a switch. He brought his good fist against the wall, letting it echo. “ _Look_ at me, Rung! Do you think _paint chips_ hurt?”

Rung brought a hand to his chin. “If you don’t pull them because they hurt, why do you pull them? What does it remind you of?”

“They remind me that this thing we do every day? It’s completely _stupid_ and we _shouldn’t_ be wasting the time,” Hot Rod growled at him. 

“Why is it wasting time?” Rung asked. “Do you prefer laying in here in between reconstructions with only Drift?”

“Drift doesn’t ask me stupid questions,” Hot Rod snapped.

“Last I checked, Drift and you weren’t talking much at all while you were left alone in here,” Rung pointed out.

“That’s better than _this,”_ Hot Rod seethed. “ _This_ is the biggest waste of time possible.”

“And why is that?” Rung poked and prodded until it was damn near _maddening._

“Because I’m still alive!” Hot Rod snarled. “So what’s the point? What’s it _matter_ why I’m chipping off paint or why I feel like absolute garbage? What’s the _point_ of how it makes me feel or not feel or how none of this scrap matters! I _killed people,”_ he declared. “And everyone is acting like it doesn’t matter.

“You’re referring to the incident at _Nyon_ again,” Rung hummed. “It’s been over four million years, Rodimus–”

“ _Hot Rod,”_ he corrected for the millionth time.

“Why is that something you feel is so pertinent to how you feel today and about how you feel about the incident on Eukaris?” Rung asked. “Hot Rod, I feel like if you could simply answer that question, the progress we would make in these sessions would be _tremendously_ increased.”

Hot Rod gripped tightly to the helm of his head as his processor throbbed and overheated. It was an intense, _acute_ pain from the conversation and he _hated_ Rung for it. He _hated_ Rung for managing to get himself to that point nearly every session. 

He pulled another chip of paint and could feel his concentration dissipate from the throbbing of his processor for at least a moment again.

“Hot Rod,” Rung said in a warning tone.

“Why can’t you leave it alone?” Hot Rod all but begged. 

“Because leaving it alone won’t make it better,” Rung assured him. “It may be difficult, but facing–”

"The only thing I have be concerned about _facing_ right now, Rung, is _you,_ because you’re the only one keeping progress up!” Hot Rod snapped. “Don’t think I haven’t figured it out – Ratchet and First Aid would’ve been finished with repairs by now if _you_ would just approve it!”

Rung looked genuinely surprised for a moment and lowered his tablet and pen. “Do you believe that?”

“I _know_ it,” Hot Rod snapped. “I asked Drift and he didn’t say _yes_ but he also didn’t say _no._ Which for him might as well be a _yes_ because like every other one of you he thinks I”m going to fall to pieces when I get bad news.”

Exasperated, Rung shook his head. “Rodimus–”

“ _Hot Rod.”_

 _“_ You already _have_ fallen to pieces,” Rung said .”And it’s not through any fault of your own. And that’s why these sessions, that’s why _talking_ to you, is so important right now. Because try as you might, you’re not tricking anyone into thinking that your damage is something you perceive as being your own fault.”

Hot Rod leered at him. “Are you trying to tell me it’s _not?”_

There was a tense moment before Rung looked to Hot Rod’s limp right hand again. “Are you read to tell me what happened on Eukaris? Why you can’t use your hand?”

“Are you ready to send me back to the Lost Light?” Hot Rod asked haughtily. “Because that’s the only way I’ll talk about _anything._ If you let me go _home._ To _my_ room. To _my…”_ A pain pinged from his spark. He vented harshly, looking down to his knees. To his bare, unarmored knees. They looked like such weak things when they were down to the frame. “To the ship.”

“You still don’t consider yourself Captain,” Rung said plainly. 

“Of course not, Megatron is,” Hot Rod said lowly. “Optimus said so.”

“He made you co-captains,” Rung reminded him.

Without even looking at Rung, Hot Rod gritted his denta. “There’s no such thing as a _co-captain._ I’m basically not even a part of command anymore. And that’s fine. That’s the way it _should_ have been. I make nothing but bad decisions. I get people killed or hurt. And I… on Eukaris…”

Hot Rod felt the words caught in his vocalizer, ready for the dam to burst and to spill everything. But then he noticed how Rung instinctively leaned forward. And that was enough to snap Hot Rod of the trance-like state. _Just in time._

Looking at Rung, Hot Rod’s look hardened and he gripped his seat tightly with his good hand. “Get me home and I’ll tell you what happened on Eukaris”

For a moment Rung almost seemed to be reflecting on the situation before he shook his head. “Hot Rod, it is _not_ that simple. And even if it were up to only me, I don’t know how ready you are for travel.”

Angry and frustrated, Hot Rod opened his mouth to argue for himself when the presumedly locked door of the medbay slid open and revealed none other than Starscream.

“Come now, doctor, where better to heal than in the safety of one’s own home?” Starscream asked, walking in. 

Hot Rod didn’t know _what_ to think when Rung got to his feet and looked absolutely _angry_ at Starscream. “This is absolutely unorthodox! This is a private session between myself and my patient. You _cannot_ interrupt, and furthermore, you _cannot_ be listening in on a private session. That breaks–”

“The law?” Starscream asked. “I would presume you’d have to be a _licensed_ doctor for that. And our records state that you are signed in for these _sessions_ as a _friend.”_

Rung’s mouth audibly closed but his eyebrows definitely read unhappy.

Starscream’s gaze turned then to Hot Rod. “You want to return to the Lost Light?” he asked shortly.

“Yes,” Hot Rod answered without hesitation. 

“Good. Because I want you off my planet. Your presence is going to cause… _complications_ with an already difficult situation dealing with the balance of power,” Starscream informed them. “I will tell Ratchet and his subordinate that they can fix you up for travel or I’ll have one of _my_ doctors do it for them.”

Hot Rod glared at him suspiciously. “And… what do _you_ want?”

Starscream walked over to Hot Rod’s berth and leaned intimidatingly over him, his red optics narrowed. “I want your _word_ that you aren’t interested in the Primacy.”

Without blinking or flinching back, Hot Rod focused on Starscream’s optics. “You have it,” he promised. 

“Rodimus…” Rung muttered in the background, but Hot Rod didn’t even _acknowledge_ the slip that time.

He was going home. And _then_ he could start making up for what he had done. Whether it was with anyone’e help or _not._

* * *

Optimus could hardly believe his audial receptors after he heard it. It was still such an unimaginably _poor_ move to make even if Starscream still didn’t have access to the recordings and to the full story as they understood it so far.

“And after today’s procedure, you are all returning to the Lost Light without another opinion on the matter?” Optimus asked Ratchet seriously. 

“Exile by another name, you could say,” Ratchet said, looking toward Optimus warily. “I’m not convinced that Starscream is fully believing in Rodimus’ innocence anymore. No matter what evidence he does or does not have. Ever since the brief case thing became news–”

Caught off guard yet again, Optimus tilted his head. “You are aware of the cases as well–”

“Aware of them? I’m one of the ones who was on a damn ship with Brainstorm and his stupid time cases here. All a bunch of nonsense,” Ratchet grumped. “Then again, what on that ship _hasn’t_ been ultimately a load of nonsense no one _really_ wanted to deal with until it was blowing up in our faces anyway?”

Feeling helplessly out of the loop, Optimus crossed his arms and shook his head. “That I cannot answer, old friend. All I can say is that the more ground that is covered in this matter, the more at my spark I feel there is an unseen danger just looming beyond the horizon. And the more I cannot help but believe that without address, it _shall_ be what undoes this temped peace.”

Ratchet snorted, leaning against the wall of his makeshift office. “Don’t need any _Guiding Hand_ to point someone in _that_ direction of assumptions. That much’s for sure.”

When contemplative silence fell between them, Ratchet’s sideways glance could not be ignored, try as Optimus might. 

“What is it?” the Prime asked, knowing that there was likely no one who knew him better than the doctor himself. 

“Lots of people have been by to check in on Rodimus,” Ratchet began, though it did not take mind reading to tell where he was going. “Bots I’m fairly sure didn’t know him from a scrap heap a few weeks ago, even. Not you, though.”

“There has been a terrorist attacking Cybertron,” Optimus answered dryly. 

“And you’re standing with me right now instead of checking on the kid who, for _some_ reason, has completely rejected the honor you gave him of a name that _doesn’t_ make him out to be a complete tool,” Ratchet responded. “Only _partially_ a tool.”

“What are you insinuating, Ratchet?” Optimus asked testily.

"No insinuation, just pointing out verifiable facts,” Ratchet answered, looking at Optimus directly. “I know Rodimus isn’t… the _easiest_ mech to get on with. He rubs me so raw somedays I feel like I need to get waxed. But if there’s one thing that has been constant since the moment your little task force in Nyon found him it’s that he’s been willing to do just about anything to appease you. _Including_ taking a blast of Megatron’s fusion cannon to the chest.”

“I’m well aware of Rodimus’ opinion of me,” Optimus responded. “And I’m grateful for it just as I am grateful toward all my friends–”

“Oh, come off it, Optimus, you’re talking to _me,”_ Ratchet reminded him. “Is it because of the name thing? Because if that’s the excuse you were _thinking_ of using, don’t bother. I know you didn’t visit him _before_ that either.”

Optimus could feel the weight of the accusations, but there was little to say in response to them. He kept his position and waited for Ratchet to calm down some more before approaching the subject at his own time. 

After all, Ratchet was the least nonsense bot that Optimus had known this side of Prowl. 

“Have I ever explained to you what it feels like to hold the Matrix?” Optimus asked.

“Yes,” Ratchet replied. “You called it a _relic_ and a _bauble_ as I recall.”

“When I spoke with Rodimus… after the time that he carried the Matrix, he had a different description,” Optimus continued. 

Ratchet’s optics rolled. “Of _course_ he did. Let me guess, he heard the singing of the Original Thirteen themselves calling to him from the great Spark in the Sky or some such? He’s been spending too much time with Drift.”

“No,” Optimus shook his head. “It was a more… _real_ explanation than that. His explanation was that… It felt like that one-in-a-million transformations, when it feels like your t-cog just _sings–”_

Ratchet groaned. “I _knew_ singing was going to have something to do with it. Love or hate him, that self-importance streak is really an itch in one’s subspace–”

“That was what holding the Matrix felt like to him. That feeling of euphoria when you change into what you are _meant_ to be,” Optimus  continued. “When he told me this, I felt… almost ashamed. Such belief, such _euphoria._ I could not tell him it was his own machinations and belief in the Matrix and Primus which had made the moment for him and not the Matrix itself.”

“He’d probably just call you modest,” Ratchet muttered.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said clearly, drawing his old friend’s gaze to him once more. “Since then, since I have gotten the Matrix back, worked on Earth, summoned Titans… Since _then_ , I have felt that song in my Spark.”

The doctor bot looked at him in complete astonishment for a moment before tilting his head back. “You’re kidding,” he said flatly. “Optimus, no offense, but you’ve been spending a _lot_ of time with zealots.”

“I will not deny that,” Optimus answered before waving to his chest. “But what is harder to deny is the way I feel more in-tune now than I ever had in all of the millennia that I have held it. And how I can sense something … a _connection_ between the Matrix and each living spark I come across. A sixth sense, of sorts.”

Scowling some, Ratchet didn’t seem convinced. But he also didn’t seem curious about the mechanisms of it. “What’s any of this have to do with you making time in that busy Prime schedule of yours to check on old friends?”

“The Matrix pulls _from_ me _toward_ Rodimus at times, I feel it happen,” Optimus explained. “But sometimes it does it when he is not there.”

Ratchet seemed even _less_ impressed with that. “So it’s, what, pulling to other mechs too? Like that nutjob Error?”

“No, this is a feeling I only know around Rodimus,” Optimus assured him. “And when he is not there… sometimes, in the shadows, I feel the pull then, too. Usually after close encounters with this rampant cult.”

“What are you telling me, Optimus?” Ratchet demanded.

“I believe that those time cases you and your ship are oh-so familiar with, may explain why I feel Rodimus when he is not there… and they _could_ explain more about those recordings.”

Ratchet’s optics widened. “The kid wasn’t talking to himself.”

“Or, perhaps, in a sense he _was,”_ Optimus said lowly.

Before Ratchet’s jaw could be picked up from the floor, however, there was a clink down the hall of running. It neared them before Windblade showed herself just around the corner. 

“Optimus!” she cried out, Chromia not far behind. “We have to get moving!”

Confused, Optimus tilted his head at her. “Windblade, what is going on?”

“I connected with Metroplex and went through all of his energy readouts of the last several weeks,” she explained, venting hard enough that the turbines of her wings were spinning. “I compared those to all the news reports of Error appearances and cult attacks.”

Chromia came up behind her, already armed. “Prime, Sir, she got a _match.”_

“There is a specific energy wavelength that is caused at every appearance of Error and his crew,” Windblade smirked. “And another one _just happened_ an hour ago. We know where they are!”

Alarmed, Optimus nodded. “Lead the way. We cannot lose this advantage so long as we have it!” He stopped just before transforming to look at Ratchet. “I promise you, my friend. Once things are sorted out, I shall make good on my mistakes.”

Ratchet huffed and crossed his arms. “I’d settle for you just not making more in the process.”

Smiling beneath his faceplate, Optimus took off after the Camiens. He was _determined_ to see whatever disaster this ended up being through to the end. 


	18. 4.2: Questions of Authority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow at this rate we’ll be done sooner than I could’ve ever imagined! Seriously thank you to everyone who’s been supporting this story. For those of you wondering about the recording, you get some major clues in this chapter but we won’t hear the transcript until later ; )
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, squireofgeekdom, @snozzlefrog, and AntaresofJuly for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Part IV: The Right to Lead  
Chapter 4.2: Questions of Authority**

She was not _quite_ at the point of fretting, but Velocity had more than a few concerns on her mind. Only the _forefront_ of which were kept to the single piece of paper that she was holding in her hands as she walked down the halls. 

A frown was settled on her face, but she knew she shouldn’t have been as nominally upset by the message as she was. After all, there was plenty of work to be done, she needed to be in the medical wing once Ratchet arrived, she had a few more assessments of new crew, rechecks on patients. 

There were things the young doctor could have been doing that were more pressing than a scribbled message in Cybertronian that was neither descriptive nor inclusive. 

Sensing someone ahead of her in the hallway, Velocity glanced up just enough to confirm that it was her dearest friend, Nautica, and that she, too, was walking in the same direction at a slow stride, a message in her hands. 

“Nautica!” Velocity called, picking up her pace just enough to get to Nautica’s side. “You have the same message as me it seems.”

“I do?” Nautica asked, far from her usual cheerful and curious self. She leaned toward the doctor to get a look at the paper she held. “Where did Swerve get so much paper, I wonder?”

“I’m almost certain you wouldn’t want the answer to that one,” Velocity replied. “I’m much more worried about _why_ he’s sending us messages.”

Once they reached the bar, however, they found its doors closed. Something that was suspiciously un- _Swerve_ of Swerve. And then they glanced at each other. 

Simultaneously, the Camiens turned their papers over to the directions they had previously ignored. 

“Two knocks?” Nautica confirmed with Velocity. 

“Two knocks,” Velocity replied just before Nautica reached forward and knocked twice on the steel doors. 

They stood in silence for a moment before the door cracked open and Swerve’s eye could be seen. “Okay, good,” he answered before finally opening the door at large. “Hurry hurry!”

Velocity cycled her optics, but Nautica had no hesitation in stepping through the door. A frown setting itself again on her face, Velocity followed suit and only jumped a _little_ when Swerve slammed the door shut behind them. 

“Alright, what’s the meaning of this?” Velocity pressed. “What are you up to, Swerve?”

“Up to nothing, and isn’t it obvious?” he asked, waving to the bar full of Necrobot survivors and a huge flyer over the bar itself which read _Welcome Onboard, Captain!_

Despite herself, it took Velocity a moment to fully process what Swerve was getting at. And then once it took hold, she had to cover her optics as she vented in disbelief. 

“Oh, Swerve, _no,”_ Velocity muttered.

Nautica, as always, seemed to be more delicate in the matte, reaching out to Swerve and trying to lead him by the shoulder. “Swerve, this is an immensely important gesture that you’re putting forward, but… I don’t think you and most of the others have _seen_ the Captain the way he is. He might not be feeling up to a big surprise like this one.”

Swerve tilted his helm. “Are we all talking about the same ‘bot? I mean… it’s _Rodimus.”_

Velocity shook her head. “Swerve, I’ve been there, believe me, it’s not–”

Whirl charged in without warning, as per usual, and nearly knocked Velocity and Nautica to the side while doing so. “Not to put too much of an emphasis on _things,_ but they’re _finally_ coming down the hallway!”

Perking up at the news, Swerve raced to the door. “Okay, everyone, in position!”

“What positions?” Nautica asked.

More concerned with the reality at hand, Velocity looked wearily toward the helicopter mech. “Whirl, you have to help me put an end to this. I can almost _guarantee_ that this is going to end in disaster for Swerve,” she pleaded.

The cylcoptic bot craned his neck. “I would hope so, that’s why most of us bothered to show up.”

Squinting at him, Velocity pursed her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Only when it means the domination and humiliation of others, I promise,” he replied, clicking his clawed hand together for what Velocity had to assume was dramatic effect. 

Swerve shushed everyone, waving his hand back at the bar while he peered through the crack in the door. “You’re going to ruin it!”

All Velocity could think to do at that point was look toward Nautica, who shared her fretful expression, but with an extra complication as she looked around. 

“Nautica?” Velocity asked despite another wave of shushes.

“Almost everyone from the Necrobot planet is here,” she pointed out before turning toward Velocity. “But I don’t see Brainstorm or Nightbeat.”

With a quick survey of the room, Velocity confirmed the assessment for herself and then looked back at Nautica. “Where could _they_ be?” she asked out loud just before Swerve burst the bar doors open.

“SURPRISE!” Swerve began the unharmonious greeting of the rest of the bar. 

In the hallway, the party of mechs accompanying Rodimus in his walk down the hall all turned toward the bar at once, varying levels of surprise and anger on their faces. Ultra Magnus and Megatron looked flatly annoyed. Ratchet seemed genuinely angered and disgusted. Drift looked surprised, which involved hands on the hilts of his swords. 

But Rodimus, at the center, he was not much more reconstructed than last Velocity had seen him. Lightly armored with temporary and seemingly light weight mesh that didn’t bother having a base coat of paint. 

If Velocity hadn’t been working as a doctor already in a few crises, and hadn’t known the circumstances intimately for herself, she might have considered calling Rodimus’ current shape a complete hack job. 

The bot of the hour stood awkwardly at the center of his traveling companions, looking almost tiredly toward the sounds of the gathered group at the bar. His optics were dull as he squinted at them, the sign, the whole _scene._ But he didn’t really react to it, he kept walking and soon enough the rest of the group sans Ultra Magnus followed suit. 

Swerve’s shoulders visibly dropped and he looked utterly dismayed as Whirl blew a streamer in his face. 

Ultra Magnus, not looking pleased, pointed directly at Swerve. “I shall have words with you later about unauthorized celebratory events held in official ship spaces later, Swerve,” he warned before turning to catch up with the others. 

“But…” Swerve attempted to interject only to have Whirl clap him on the shoulders. 

“Ah, Swerve, it was everything we hoped it would be. The reunion for the masses,” Whirl philosophized before walking toward the door. 

Most of the others awkwardly began to shuffle out, muttering about how Rodimus had looked, what a dumb idea the whole affair had been, and more. 

Nautica awkwardly rubbed her shoulder as she and Velocity stood by Swerve a moment longer than the others. 

“I have to get to the Medbay,” Velocity said apologetically to them. “It looks like Rodimus is still mid-repair… And Rung had contacted me about meeting with him before I join on with the rest of the medical crew.”

“You go ahead,” Nautica nodded to her, putting gentle servos on Swerve’s shoulders. “I know someone else who could use a pick-me-up.”

“What was I _thinking?”_ Swerve groaned.

Nautica patted him lovingly. “Only the best, Swerve. Only the best.”

Velocity sighed at the awkwardness of it all and started out the door. It was time to get back on duty. _And_ to figure out what they were going to do next with the ever growing problems of the Lost Light crew.

* * *

Starscream was _not_ expecting the backlash of the Council of Worlds to have come _quite_ so soon. 

“Despite this matter being intricately detailed between all of our worlds, despite the fact that an ongoing investigation would be jeopardized by the irrationality of it,” Obsidian blustered out, irate as anyone from Carcer seemed to become. “Despite these very basic truths, Lord Starscream, _you_ made a unilateral decision to send the majority of parties involved back onto a craft which does not see itself as falling to any of the jurisdictions under this Council’s domain!”

Looking around the table, Starscream could see the outrage written on the faces of those who supported Obsidian’s claims. He could also see the matching indifference of those who did not seem to hold a full opinion on the matter. 

There was no one’s glances who seemed supportive of Starscream’s side. Which meant he was forced into doing the legwork himself. _Again._

 _It’d be easier if you bothered making friends among the Council,_ Bumblebee mumbled to him alone. 

“Obsidian,” Starscream said neatly, straightening up in his seat, “would you be interested in _my_ account of what I did in this matter?”

The Carcer delegate’s optics narrowed as he crossed his arms. He said nothing, but it was all Starscream could hope to get from his foremost enemy on the Council when Windblade wasn’t getting involved with his personal affairs. 

Getting to his feet, Stascream stood in full view of the Council. 

“My Council, you must understand that while I am aware and _understanding_ of your various concerns with this matter between ourselves and these terrorists at our own doors, the trial and subsequent release of one of _my_ citizens under the assessment of this very governing body, encouraged me to show more empathy for the plight beyond our planet,” Starscream explained loftily. “After all, what is the Lost Light but an example of how our common goal – the thriving of all Cybertronians and their descendant colonists – and under the charisma of their captain, they can continue to provide a _light_ in these dark times to our remaining citizens, if you will.”

“And I’m certain you have _no_ ulterior motives,” Windblade chimed in, her gaze set on Starscream.

“Always a kink in the hose,” Starscream muttered to himself. “Yes, Delegate Windblade. There _is_ another motive to this. One that I believe everyone here can appreciate.”

“We would be pleased to hear this, Lord Starscream,” Tigatron replied, not hiding his upset over the interruption in the investigation of what happened on his own colony.

"Yes, it can be as simple as this,” Starscream said, holding up his hand in extension to the others. A hollow gesture of openness to most but not all. “The fact remains that while Error’s initial attack against us all had been a calculated but far reaching strike, since then the terror has been concentrated almost entirely on individuals. That included Rodimus’ team. It involved Optimus Prime. Removing those at the center of attacks from company at large keeps our citizenry more safe than if we kept them in town squares or locked in prison cells at the heart of our government seat.”

There was a surprised gasp around the room.

“You want to throw out the _Prime!?”_ Windblade cried out. 

“What madness is this?” Tigatron demanded. 

“The kind which saves the most lives,” Starscream replied solemnly. “I would think you _all_ would agree with me on at least this.”

Outbursts broke out throughout the chamber, but all were silenced when Obsidian raised both his hands. He was staring at Starscream intently as he lowered his hands once more. “The plan Lord Starscream has proposed,” he said slowly, “is… highly logical.”

That caused another uproar but before Starscream could think of another way out of his own announcement, the entire chamber shook with an astounding force. There was surprised cries throughout the room, but most of the delegates were close enough to the table or sitting in their seats. 

Starscream, ever unlucky, had no such precautions and fell ungracefully from his throne. He gnashed his denta as he hit the floor and cycled his optics in confusion. 

The shaking was still happening. 

“What the _Pit_ is going on!?” he snarled before his communicator beeped with an incoming frequency. He pushed to his feet, however unsettling it was to try and remain upright. “Who is this and what the hell is going on!?” 

“Starscream, it’s Wheeljack!” the scientist called out. “Someone is messing with Metroplex, we’re sending Badgeless toward his Processor now. The ones on scene aren’t responding.”

“What is _whoever it is_ trying to do with _my_ Titan!?” he demanded

“I can’t tell you, but it looks like they’re moving the transformation cog just enough that it’s only effecting the capital building,” Wheeljack announced. “That is an immense amount of control, even for cityspeakers–”

“I get the point,” Starscream snapped, hanging up. “Someone is using Metroplex to get my attention. Now they have it and they’re going to _regret_ having it,” he declared before looking across the room to Windblade. 

She was already looking his way. 

“We are heading to Metroplex’s brain, Windblade, and we’re getting there _now!”_ he ordered before leaping into the air, freeing himself of the quake and allowing for space to transform to his altmode. 

“Alright then,” Windblade replied before doing the same and dashing off at the same time as Starscream. 

* * *

Megatron _paced,_ as unbecoming as it was of him to do so. But he _paced,_ and he simmered beneath the surface. And he knew it was doing none of them any good.

“Captain, perhaps we could go to the bridge and reset our course?” Ultra Magnus suggested, watching the captain carefully. There was an unease behind his suggestion. A need to get Megatron to stop any unsightly behavior. “I believe the best example to set now that our entire crew is with us is for us to once more move _forward.”_

Stopping, Megatron glared in Magnus’ direction. Such a stare, when he was Lord of the Decepticon cause, would have sent enemies and allies alike scrambling. But over the years, his most formidable opponents found a certain courage in not standing down from it. 

Ultra Magnus met his glare with a level stare. If it had been Prime, he would have robustly and angrily met him with another glare. 

And Rodimus was not that different.

Looking away from Magnus, Megatron pinched the bridge between his optics. “I apologize, Ultra Magnus. You are performing your post admirably while I am allowing the stresses of all the recent drama boil my energon from the inside.”

“Yes, well, it has been _quite_ a lot to take in. I do not believe anyone can begrudge you at least that,” Magnus replied. “But should we–”

“Yes. We _should_ move forward to our next marked location,” Megatron agreed. “But I will need to plot the course from there. If you could go to the bridge and take command while I attend to these other duties, I would appreciate it.”

While Ultra Magnus looked suspiciously at Megatron, he was also obviously pleased with the reply. “Very well,” he said. “I shall do just that then.”

“Thank you,” Megatron said to Ultra Magnus’ back as the mech headed out the door. 

Hesitating, Ultra Magnus _almost_ let his suspicions get the best of him, but then he went with his own advice and moved forward toward the bridge .

After a few moments of staring at the door, Megatron knew that Ultra Magnus would have been too far down the hall to hear the office door open again. That gave Megatron free range to leave the room and make haste toward the Medbay. 

It had been hours since they had what remained of their crew on Cybertron back onto the Lost Light and not for an instant of it had Megatron been able to speak to Rodimus on his own terms. 

Mostly because, given what he had to say, those terms were not altogether kind. 

As per usual, no one bothered to try and stop Megatron as he moved through the halls of the Lost Light. Even the newer ilk, mostly colonists without memories of war or even Decepticons, had taken a hint from the rest of the crew and all but turned the other direction when they saw their captain coming. 

It was something that should not have bothered him as much as it did. And it was something he could not _allow_ to bother him until all other things on the ship were in order. 

And that included his co-captain. 

By the time he reached his destination, there was very little between Cybertron and the blasted Cyberutopia that could have stopped his momentum.

The locked door to Rung’s office flung open on command, a safety code given to the officers of the ship was handy after past incidents in the former psychiatrist’s office. 

Rung nearly leaped out of his chair in response, looking at Megatron behind his wide glasses. 

Rodimus, too, jumped, but only slightly. Then his head merely tilted in confusion. 

“Captain, this is a private session. Unless something is wrong, I am afraid I will have to insist that you leave the office,” Rung said, immediately bristling, as if he could sense there was something dangerous in Megatron’s mind. 

Looking directly at Rung, Megatron scowled. “Have you taken back your psychiatrist position on the entire ship?” he demanded.

“You know I cannot,” Rung began to argue.

“Then this is not a _session_ nor is it _private_ since there is no confidentiality and you are in an office reclaimed by the ship,” Megatron argued. 

“That’s–”

Holding up a hand, Megatron silenced Rung’s opposition before it could even get fully started. At the very least, he had _that_ ability over his crew still. He then looked at Rodimus who was just staring at Megatron with those sad, dull eyes. 

“You, Rodimus,” Megatron began.

“ _Hot Rod,”_ Rodimus said, almost seething.

“I know what you are trying to do, and I am _disappointed_ in you for it,” Megatron hissed at him. “You were confronted with atrocities you saw at your own hands. You were confronted with a monstrous shadow with yourself. You looked into an abyss, and the bot who once pulled me from my very own darkness, who once proudly proclaimed his achievements and spoke ill of my decision to no longer fight – _you gave up.”_

"Megatron! That’s _enough!”_ Rung scolded, getting to his feet as if he stood anything thicker than pipes. 

“No, it isn’t, is it, Rodimus?” Megatron demanded from his co-captain.

“How do you _know_ what I saw?” Rodimus finally snapped. “Why the hell does everyone think they have any idea what happened–”

“Your transmissions were clouded, but they got _through,”_ Megatron answered fiercely. “The recording has everything from your channel to us. We didn’t decrypt it in time, but we have listened to all of it. And what happened is not your fault.”

Rodimus’ jaw worked in a vicious fashion, as if chewing back on words he wanted to say. “How can you know _anything_ and _possibly_ think that’s true? You’re a _liar,”_ Rodimus snapped at last.

“And if you truly believed that you killed those crew members yourself, if that was _actually_ what happened on Eukaris, then how could you bring yourself back onto this ship?” Megatron demanded. “Have you even bothered to ask yourself _that_ question, Rodimus? Have you even _cared_ enough to wonder?” 

“What the _frag_ is Eukaris!? We’re talking about _Nyon!”_ Rodimus yelled in response. The yell was so forceful, the emotion so real that for the first time since the mess had started, Megatron could see _light_ behind Rodimus’ eyes again. But with it came a flare, it started in the limp right hand laying at Rodimus’ side and rose over his body. “How else can you explain what happened–”

“ _Enough!”_ Ratchet’s voice roared from behind Megatron in the hall. The medic was charging his way, Velocity in tow. “The _frag_ you think you’re doing, Megatron?” 

“What no one else seems to be willing to do at the moment,” Megatron answered, already seeing that Rodimus fuel reserves were cut about as short as he suspected and he flamed out easily, Rung catching him. “Getting my co-captain back through getting to the bottom of what he knows and doesn’t know.”

“You’re causing psychiatric injury to one of _my_ patients, and I recall telling you when you were first appointed leader of this ship that I would tolerate your command everywhere _but_ where it concerned my medbay and _my patients!”_ Ratchet yelled, poking a finger into Megatron’s chest. “Let medical professionals decide how best to ease someone back into psychiatric care is the _last_ responsible thing you could do at the moment.”

“You forget, doctor, that I am one of the few on this ship who understand what it is like to be _forever altered_ by Shadowplay,” Megatron snapped. “I am not allowing my co-captain down the same destructive path the confusion and outrage you suffer in the aftermath. And none of you are answering the question that could very much endanger the rest of this ship – _why he was adamant about getting back on this ship._ Something that could have been _implanted_ in him if we can’t straighten this out–”

“Home.”

The arguing silenced for just a moment, and everyone looked toward the speedster leaned up against Rung. Rodimus didn’t lift his head but his voice was clear. “I came back… because the only place I want to be is home… and that’s not Cybertron anymore. It’s here.”

Megatron felt something heavy in his spark.

“You have your answer, Megatron,” Ratchet hissed. “Now get the hell out of this wing or I’ll call security and we’ll see who they’re more liable to answer to under the circumstances.”

Looking to the angered Rung, Megatron nodded his head. “Your _breakthrough,_ Rung. It is good to see you acting with your license again,” he said before turning and walking out as Ratchet demanded. 

“I don’t know why he would do that,” Velocity could be heard muttering to the others.

He didn’t need to answer it again, even in their anger it was obvious that Ratchet and Rung knew why Megatron had to act. 

They understood that no matter what the Shadowplay did, for Rodimus to burn his crewmates to the point of spark expulsion, and turn that heat then on himself, it was going to be an unpleasant and maybe _impossible_ journey to get him back to what he once was.

And that involved the first step that took over five million years for Megatron to take: admitting what he _had_ and what he had _not_ done. Laying down the bricks of that road for himself one step at a time. 


	19. 4.3: Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I took forever with this chapter, but in my defense, action sequences always take more out of me than “usual” chapters, so you all who have wanted some more action to spice things up in the story came at the right time ; ) 
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, All_Good_Names_Are_Gooone, squireofgeekdom, AntaresofJuly for the feedback! Lately I’ve spent too much time concentrating on negativity instead of appreciating all the kind words and support I’ve gotten lately and I’m going to try to do better by myself and by you guys in remembering and focusing on just how proud I am that I have any readership on this story at all. So sincerely, thank you all.

**Part IV: The Right to Lead  
Chapter 4.3: Old Friends**

Almost despite herself, Windblade found herself thinking about the Mistress of Flame. Flying through the hectic city, ducking into bowels of its underground labyrinth hot on Starscream’s trail, but Windblade’s instincts were still with Caminus. 

And how the leader would think of her following, without question, a mech who proposed something as fundamentally abhorrent to their sensibilities as ousting the rightful Prime. 

But beyond that, Windblade was at odds with herself. After all, ultimately she, too, could not disagree that there was a certain _logic_ behind putting the city and indeed the entirety of their worlds before the Prime.

Is that not what Optimus would have opted for himself in the circumstances? 

“The Badgeless are _useless,”_ Starscream snarled ahead of her. “Utterly useless – I’ll have Ironhide’s head for this incompetence. What good is a police force that can’t even manage guardianship of the absolute most important spot in this entire city!?”

“We won’t know what we’re dealing with until we get there,” Windblade reminded him, narrowly missing scraping her wings against the sides of the ever changing walls around them. “I fail to think of a way that anything less than truly _extraordinary_ circumstances would remove Ironhide’s police from their posts.”

“Then you’re not _nearly_ as well versed in the many ways of incompetence of soldiers as I am,” Starscream snapped at her without hesitation. 

Windblade held her tongue and sped up. 

Being a fellow jet, Windblade took some appreciation for the skill of the Seeker in the air. For a more bulky model, his speed and control even in the tight spaces they were currently in was something to behold. Then again, as Starscream had liked to remind Windblade in the past, she lacked experience in _war_ , and it was _war_ that gave him a certain edge when it came to creativity and resources that she was still novice in. 

At least for the time being. 

Still, it took Windblade by surprise when Starscream let out a flustered but ultimately incoherent set of noises and slowed to a stop, transforming in midair and landing in the tunnel. 

Windblade followed suit, realizing with some surprise that the shaking and quaking had come to an abrupt end. And that standing not far ahead of them was Optimus Prime himself.

“It is _astounding_ how you continue to be found at the source of all my endless problems, Prime,” Starscream snarled at Optimus. 

“Optimus!” Windblade greeted with, by far, a higher note of relief. She neared him. “How did you know we were heading toward Metroplex’s processor?”

The Prime stood tall among them, as always. His head tilted toward Windblade almost in surprise. “I received _your_ herald, Windblade. It was the only way which I could have known where the source of this current chaos could have resided.”

Starscream let out a long growl and glared in Windblade’s direction. “Honestly, does your subservience to blind traditions and outdated lore know no bounds? And here I had the senselessness to invite you along to stop this mess.”

Cycling her optics in disbelief, Windblade held her hand to her spark chamber and shook her head. “That wasn’t me, Optimus. I swear it. Starscream and I rushed to her as soon as possible and I had no time to send out any signal, even along the way. I didn’t even _think_ to.”

“Truly, this is a matter of concern then,” Optimus said gravely just before Metroplex experienced another mighty shake that sent them all unsteady on their pedes.

“We don’t have the _time_ for accusations or explanations!” Starscream snapped. “Prime, if you actually _are_ here to help us then do us a favor and knock down the door to the inner sanctum.”

Despite Starscream’s crassness, Optimus steadied himself against the wall and made his way to the door in question. Emergency lights were signaling around it, clearly marking that Ironhide and Wheeljack’s emergency designs were working and the door had been fastened shut.

But Optimus pulled out a large plasma rifle and aimed for the door before setting the gun off, bursting the door down from its center. He then showed no hesitation before going inside.

Windblade and Starscream followed. The Camien was shocked to see the guards Ironhide had posted were morbidly still at their assigned stations — but malformed and melted in place with streaks of black burns across the floors and walls around them. She put a hand to her mouth and looked back to see the others’ reactions.

Starscream, as ever, was an unreadable glare.

Optimus walked toward the guard nearest him and reached out with an almost tender hand, laying it on what was left of the Badgeless’ arm. It was a silent moment that broke Windblade’s spark with the familiarity that Optimus seemed to take in doing it.

“At ease, old friend,” Optimus said softly.

In that moment, with those words, Windblade was not sure how Starscream or any other Cybertronian could doubt the truth in Optimus being a Prime.

“You knew that guard?” Windblade said with a soft tone.

“Prime can’t recognize who the poor cog was anymore than you and I, Windblade. Just look at what’s left — _nothing,”_ Starscream spat.

“I do not have to know one personally to know they died in duty,” Prime answered. “Move forward, the culprits are no _doubt_ these cultists who have been responsible in the past. I almost became familiar with the flames of the leader, Error, myself last time. I am eager to ask some questions in regard to where his ability came from.”

Confused, Windblade watched as Prime began to enter further into the chamber. Reluctantly, she looked to Starscream who seemed irritated more than anything else. “I don’t understand… he called the mech a friend—“

“Oh, _please_ do not waste any more of our time attempting to psychoanalyze a wartime general who can’t find his place in society,” Starscream snapped as he moved forward. “It’s a _quirk._ He’s _chalk full_ of them. He calls soldiers his _friends_ to pretend like he isn’t using _divinity_ as an excuse for his position and sending _zealots_ to die because they believe in him more than his cause.”

Windblade narrowed her optics. “The war is over, Starscream.”

“Please, _I_ know that,” he replied, looking over his shoulder toward Windblade. “ _I_ have moved on. I have a city I’m here to protect. A _planet_ whose survival rests on my wings. I don’t even wear a badge anymore. Now. _You_ need to ask who among us has none of those things to fight for but still carries a high grade military weapon.”

Moving into the chamber, Windblade tried to hide how flustered she was with Starscream by heading her separate way, fanning out and investigating more of the area and, hopefully, getting herself on the quicker route to Metroplex’s processor so that she could fix whatever damage these monsters had caused.

Still, as always was the case with Starscream’s biting words, they clung to her and sent trembles through her spark.

Optimus was still fighting, she could never deny that. But she had known him to fight for his _friends_ rather than any political agenda. She could respect that — after all, Caminus taught traditional warrior swordplay and weapons handling to all of its residents and worshiped the forge of Solus Prime. But if Starscream was remotely correct, if Optimus considered himself to be fighting for _soldiers_ … What was his true investment in the rest of Cybertron and its colonies?

The concern was paramount to her own mission, let alone what their current objective brought them.

But she did not have long to think on it, as her shortcut led her exactly to where she needed to be — Metroplex’s processor. And no sooner had she reached it than the sound of clashing and gunfire in the near halls rang out.

Windblade looked toward the sounds of violence for only a moment before turning her attention back to Metroplex and seeing, to her horror, that just on the other side of the round orb of the processor was none other than the hulking, massive form of Error.

He was drawn to look away by the sounds as well, but his attention was quickly refocused on Windblade and his red optics narrowed to slits.

“You _still_ are determined to be a thorn in my… No. It is not you. Not _yet,”_ he said cryptically before aiming his palm toward Windblade. “And if I truly have my way, hopefully not _ever.”_

Having been around for their last confrontation, Windblade was aware of what power Error’s current action held, and so she wasted no time in using her wind terminals to increase the power of her own leap away from his aim. The searing flames licked at her pedes before she came to a safe landing on the other side of the chamber. Still she looked back in surprise at just how much hotter and more powerful the flames had become in the short amount of time since she had last encountered him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Error,” she said firmly before unleashing her wing blade and getting into proper sparring stance. “But I won’t allow you to harm this Titan or any other citizens under the protection of the Council of Worlds!”

“My, how the times leave little to change,” Error cackled, slowly coming around toward Windblade, attempting to line up his aim once more. “Who all did you bring with you? You aren’t Prime’s _pet_ yet. You don’t lead Caminus’ little Torch Bearers…”

Confused, Windblade kept her focus on slowly backing out of range of Error. But she couldn’t help the way his words confounded her. “I think you have a circuit loose,” she declared. “Nothing you’re saying makes any sense.”

“That’s the sad part, _Cityspeaker,”_ Error said with a long drawl. “I assure you, everything I saw is true, and it _still_ does not make sense. It does not make sense because time and truth and _power_ and _Primus’ will_ has been thoroughly broken. It has to be corrected for there to be any hope at all.”

“You’re a zealot of a doctrine that doesn’t exist,” she snapped at him. “And for you to continue to use Primus’ name as an excuse for the evil you’re doing—“

“Is not more evil than allowing the title of _Prime_ to fall to the unclean hands of _nonbelievers!”_ he roared.

Windblade’s spark skipped at Error’s ferocious snarl as he caught up with her, his hand lost behind a searing flame. She dodged, but not before realizing that between them was a entrance to the processor chamber where Optimus was racing their way, plasma rifle drawn.

But he was _not_ at an angle to see Error before Error saw _him._

“At last,” Error hissed, turning his attention toward the door and redirecting both of his open palms. “Primus’ Guiding Hand has brought me to the very moment where I change all of history and time for the good of his Will.”

“Optimus!” Windblade cried out before jetting toward him, knocking him back into the halls just before Error’s fires caught up with them and engulfed her.

* * *

Hot Rod stewed where Megatron had left him as the others talked around him in heated tones.

It was not exactly a new thing — over the weeks of his so-called recovery, that had been something of the norm. Hot Rod’s silence was taken for a lack of opinion or desire to participate in the conversations being had about _his_ life and _his_ state of mind. Talking over him, talking about him, it was the norm at that point. And outside of mine outbursts to remind everyone that he wanted at _least_ the observation that his _name_ was his own to determine still, there seemed to be precious little inspiration for him to make a change.

Instead, he stared at his brittle right hand as it laid limply by him, still scorched and painful.

It said so much — more than even Megatron’s outburst had said, the revelation that the people around him _knew_ had said.

“Velocity, I’m being serious when I tell you that you’re to contact the ship guard and tell them that under _no circumstances_ are they going to let Megatron in the medical wing,” Ratchet was snapping just a short distance away. “And, Rung, sorry, but you’ll have to have your ‘talks’ with Rodimus in my office if you need privacy. He’s staying exactly where we can keep an optic on him since it’s clear our captain has lost his circuit breaker.”

“I don’t disagree that it was crude and unnecessary,” Drift spoke up. “But I think it needs to be said that Megatron was able to get more of a reaction out of Rodimus in a few minutes than we have in hours — _weeks_ of working with him. There may be more method to his madness than not.”

“Are you _defending_ what just happened? It was a serious breach of medical protocol and utterly unbecoming of a leader,” Velocity challenged haughtily.

“Of course he is, because Drift is the epitome of _change_ and _believing in someone’s spark_ no matter what war criminal they were before or what scrap they do _now_ ,” Ratchet snapped, throwing up his arms. “Let’s just come in for a hug, I’m sure it’s in everyone’s best interests.”

“I’m not _defending_ Megatron, and I’m not in _favor_ of what happened, but I think he understands the point he was making more than any of us are giving him credit,” Drift said simply. “I worked with Megatron before—“

“As a _Decepticon_ , Drift, which _you’re not anymore,”_ Ratchet hissed.

“No one has to tell me what I’m _not_ anymore, I’m more than aware,” Drift said simply. “As was Rodimus when he asked me about beginning the Lost Light. It’s just important to acknowledge when things have more than one layer. Back me up, Rung.”

“I believe there is more to Megatron, but Hot Rod deserves tempered treatment in his state,” Rung said, straightening his goggles.

For a moment, Hot Rod could feel enough of his numbed limb to twitch a finger.

“Thank you,” he said lowly.

No matter how lowly it was said, however, it more than caught the attention of those around him. Everyone turned in shock and awe toward Hot Rod. He could feel their gazes on him, _burning_ into the back of his head and more. His optics narrowed, but he didn’t turn toward them, almost petulantly.

“Thank you, Rung… for calling me Hot Rod,” he said, getting to his feet. He was far more mindful of the waver of his uneven weight than he had been when Megatron got the better of his temper just a short while before. He looked back to the others with intent, something that apparently caught them off guard. “How many of you listened to the audio recordings?” he asked, still low and scratchy, like his vocalizer was still struggling in its own recoup.

“Half of you? _All_ of you? How many?”

“Not many,” Ratchet answered first, firm and stoic as ever. “But yes. Everyone here right now. We have. We listened.”

 _We know_ , was not said.

Hot Rod inferred it.

“Were you going to make me listen to it, Rung?” he asked. “When I was _better_ , whatever _that_ means anymore?”

“I was never going to _force_ you to listen to anything, Hot Rod,” Rung answered. “It was something I _would_ offer, in _doses,_ if you continued to be confused by the false narrative that was fed to you.”

“False… shadowplay?” Hot Rod clarified. “Is it _false_ that I blew up Nyon?”

No one dared say a word.

“What could be false if _that_ wasn’t?” Hot Rod asked with a small, subconscious laugh. “What could be _worse?_ The fact that I used my own hand to kill members of this crew? That could be worse than killing everyone in a _city_ with the touch of a button.”

Rung attempted to explain, “Not all of that is true, and your recent guilt about Nyon is a side effect of—“

“It’s not _that_ recent,” Hot Rod said before making his way to the door.

“Rod—“ Drift stopped himself short and took to Hot Rod’s side. “Hot Rod, I’ll walk with you. Let these guys all sort things out.”

“Right,” Hot Rod said simply, allowing Drift to follow, as if he had much of a choice in the matter, and leaving the team of doctors behind them.

The weight was still off balance on his frame, and that made most of Hot Rod’s movements uneven. But Drift kept pace with him all the same. The material that Hot Rod’s frame was temporarily welded by was lighter than his previous build, and the kibble that had been replaced had been basic, strictly necessary stuff.

And yet, despite all looks to the contrary, deep in his spark, Hot Rod felt like he could still kindle a flame, could still test out his t-cog. It was like he was halfway to whole no matter how he looked or felt.

“We’re not heading toward the infirmary are we?” Drift said after a while, voice low.

“No,” Hot Rod answered. “Are you going to stop me?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t,” Drift assured him.

“You _definitely_ could right now,” Hot Rod said before looking toward Drift. “Do you think there’s another reason that Nyon’s so prominent in my head right now? _Beyond_ the obvious?”

Drift seemed to reflect on the question quietly before looking worriedly toward Rodimus. “Do _you?”_

“That’s what I want to find out,” Hot Rod said seriously. “And to do that… we need to _get there._ ”

* * *

Optimus knew he had been slow and he had been _foolish_ the moment Error’s full attention had fallen upon him. After all, he had been using himself as bait for the zealot before, and it was clear that it had been a proper call.

The moment that Windblaie’s frame hit the floor, Optimus was bursting through the residing fires to scoop her up.

“Windblade!” he called out to her as he did so, easily pulling the smaller bot into his arms.

She was not nearly burnt as badly as those who they had witnessed suffer on Eukaris had been, but to be just short of shark expulsion was far from a positive mark to meet. She twitched at what was no doubt searing pain where the brunt of the heat had been taken and thus melted down to expose scarring protoform beneath on her arms and legs.

“Optimus, get out of here,” she ordered, as fierce and decisive as ever.

“No, my False Prime, stay,” Error urged, stepping closer. “Know the fate that meets all those judged harshly by the Guiding Hand.”

Narrowing his optics and holding more assuredly to Windblade in his arms, Optimus stared back at Error meaningfully. “I cannot know a judgment which is not truly served,” he told Error fiercely. “You are no more a _Guiding Hand_ of Primus than you are at true command of those flames.” He nodded toward the hands which were still steaming as they hung by Error’s sides. “Or did you expect that after a _fourth_ encounter with you, I would not notice that you have a recharge limit on your so-called divine powers, or that the flames come from your _wrists_ where I am certain a flamethrower is rigged rather than from your palms like a mech who truly was gifted with an outlier ability to produce fire.”

Error stopped cold in his tracks. There was surprise on his face, but only momentarily. It was followed by inconsolable rage.

“How _dare_ you insinuate—“

“There is no insinuation, only observation,” Optimus continued while Windblade looked at him, mortified. “After all, we both know that if such a gift was supposed to be a message of divine right, there is a mech who _actually_ can produce fire at will.”

Windblade’s head was nearly turned entirely on its side as she looked at Optimus in shock. “Are you… _intentionally_ upsetting the homicidal mech?” she asked him lowly.

“I am making a point that must be made,” Optimus answered. “One that _must_ be said for any one of Error’s followers to hear so they can stop being blinded by Primus’ so-called light themselves.”

Growling in anger, Error thrust one of his hands up in the same motion which had led to the prior attack. Windblade recoiled on instinct, but it was not followed by flames. An empty click met them instead.

Optimus remained unmoved and _unimpressed._

“The world cannot quake to a terror it does not have any longer, Error,” Optimus warned.

“Foreboding but ultimately unimpressive yourself, Prime,” Starscream called from behind. “You left the rest of Metroplex in danger to make your showy stand off, but fortunately _one_ of us had the good foresight to call for backup.” He paused and looked to Error. “In case you were wondering, it was _me._ As always, _I_ am the one with the plans. And I am the one that _truly_ you should have thought twice about crossing.” He grew a smug expression. “I suppose that’s your aptly named _error_ in judgment.”

“Wrong,” Error snarled, lowering his hand. “The _Error_ to which I refer is to the wrong line of succession that has been undertaken. I refer to the disservice of false Primes who do not make Cybertron and its nascent colonies form to the will of Primus.”

“And if only you had _kept_ your business to that, we may have found common grounds,” Starscream tisked. “But like so many before you, you’re greedy. And your message fell on deafened audials the moment you overreached.”

Prime was ready to then take Windblade’s warning — that they were testing the calmness of mind of what was a truly unhinged bot — to spark and warn Starscream to back off from Error’s formidable temper. But he did not have the chance.

Marching feet could be heard encircling the chamber an Ironhide pressed to the front, making his way through the halls and toward Optimus, Starscream, Windblade, and the ever mysterious Error. “Is everyone alright in here?”

“For the moment,” Starscream said with sadistic leering in Error’s direction.

“Windblade could require medical attention,” Optimus informed Ironhide. “And some of your guards — the Badgeless — were burned.”

“Saw that, saw a _lot,_ actually,” Ironhide growled out, nearing Error with cuffs. “Error, you are under arrest by order of the Badgeless Guard of Cybertron. You can remain quiet or you can take a righteous step off the step of a pit. We’ll be happy with either at this point.”

Dawning with realization, Error stepped back. “No. This is _not_ how it works, this is _not_ how the change is made and the errors of time corrected!”

“Afraid that’s very _much_ how it happens,” Ironhide claimed just before Error made some rash movements, causing them all to tense. “Put down whatever you have or—“

“The time is just not _now,”_ Error decided before producing what looked like a brief case — one that Optimus near immediately recognized from before.

“Ironhide, that case is his escape—“ the Prime attempted to warn just as Error opened the contraption.

No one had time to react, a purple haze overcoming them all and mass confusion ensuing.

Once more, they had lost their chance.

“What the Pit was _that!?”_ Ironhide coughed out, waving the smoke away from his face. “And where did that aft go? _How_ did he go?”

“ _Gone_ , he _left_ he _went,”_ Starscream screeched in rage before turning angrily on Optimus. “And, as usual, the sanctimonious Optimus Prime seems to be more aware of what’s going on than anyone but can’t be bothered to warn us ahead of time!”

Windblade struggled to push enough away from Optimus’ chest to assert herself against Starscream. “That isn’t the case, Starscream.”

“None of us knew what the _case_ was except for Prime, so it stands to reason, _Delegate Windblade,_ that he is involved with this all somehow!” Starscream snapped.

Even Ironhide had to look at Optimus with some amount of derision. “What’s going on, Optimus?” his oldest friend asked.

“I am not sure how much I know, only that I had seen Error utilize that escape before, and that I believe it is a technology that allows for interference with travel not just through _space_ but through _time,”_ he explained vaguely. “A very advanced science that I do not myself understand.”

The group looked at him more apprehensively.

“And how is it that you came to such knowledge to begin with, Prime?” Starscream demanded.

“ _That_ I cannot share,” Optimus responded.

“Of _course_ you can’t,” Starscream snapped before pointing at Optimus and looking at Ironhide. “I say we arrest him.”

“On _what_ charge, _Lord_ Starscream?” Ironhide asked with a roll of his optics.

“Please, that can be made up _secondarily,_ what matters is that we don’t let him off on his merry way after it’s been made _obvious_ that he’s not keeping authorities informed of all that he knows and it’s putting our entire planet at risk as a result!” Starscream claimed.

Optimus had little doubt that Ironhide would ignore the order, but even if he hadn’t, his attention was immediately brought elsewhere when he received an incoming message from Jetfire. He tuned from the squabbling officials to put more focus on the call.

“Yes, Jetfire? What is it?” Optimus asked.

“You need to come to Wheeljack’s lab, Sir,” Jetfire reported in formally. “Immediately. It’s… Rodimus just arrived here. Sort of.”

Surprised, Optimus looked warily toward his company before beginning to carry Windblade out of the chamber with him. “I will make my way there after taking Windblade to a medical ward. She received severe burns that should be taken care of—“

“Uh, you might want to bring her here instead, Sir,” Jetfire continued, sounding more and more unnerved as they went on.

“What for, Jetfire?” Optimus asked.

“Well… you see… Rodimus isn’t the only one who arrived,” Jetfire said lowly. “A… well, _the_ Windblade came with him. Wheeljack triple checked her spark signature. It is definitely her…”

Stopping in his tracks, Optimus looked to the Windblade in his arms. She looked back, equally confused.

“What is it, Optimus?” she asked.

“How is that possible, Jetfire?” Optimus demanded. “I assure you, Delegate Windblade is with me—“

“Well, you need to see it for yourself,” Jetfire continued. “But the best we can get out of the two of them is that they want to see you, that it’s urgent, that their spark signatures _do_ match what they say and…”

“And?” Optimus pressed.

“And, well,” Jetfire uncharacteristically hesitated before at last answering. “Rodimus is… He has the Matrix. The _whole_ one.”

Optimus could not have appeared more shocked had Alpha Trion himself appeared before them. 

Windblade was immediately on edge. “Prime… _Optimus_ … what is it?” 

“I am not sure, Windblade,” he answered truthfully. “I suppose we shall soon learn it together.”


	20. 4.4: Primal Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there’s been a super long wait and I apologize for that, but in my defense, this ended up being quite a long chapter compared to the others and it’s also the last chapter of Part IV, so hopefully getting some long awaited answers to questions will have been worth the wait. Thank you so much for your patience and your support, guys, it means a lot. We’re only five chapters from the end! It’s so hard to believe!
> 
> Special thanks to AntaresofJuly, Isame, squireofgeekdom, Fanatic97, and Catgox for the feedback!

**Part IV: The Right to Lead  
Chapter 4.4: Primal Power**

Brainstorm carefully balanced the wrench on the ends of his digits and waited for it to tilt in either direction. He, of course, knew it  _wouldn’t_ as he had created it and therefore it was obviously perfectly balanced, but it went a long way to proving his point to a fellow scientifically minded crewmate.

“There is nothing wrong with the wrench on any comparative, physically acknowledgeable scale,” he concluded as he looked back to Nautica only to have the wrench rudely snatched away from him.

“I told you that  _before_ you ran diagnostics on it  _by hand,”_ Nautica retorted, shaking the wrench at him in warning. “What I need from  _you_ right now is to stop bothering  _my_ things during the hours you’re not allowed in the laboratory. It’s not funny anymore, Brainstorm. Actually, it never was, but the patience required to humor you costs too much now.”

“You wound me to the spark,” Brainstorm claimed, hand on his chest. “And besides, with Chromedome more occupied with Rewind than usual and Nightbeat constantly researching  _something_ he won’t tell us about and Perceptor taking on more  _official_ duties with the Lost Light all in alarm, I literally have nothing to do with all the time I’m  _not allowed_ to be in the laboratory!”

Nautica looked highly unimpressed as she crossed her arms and stared at Brainstorm. “That doesn’t make me more sympathetic to you annoying me, Brainstorm. Why don’t you hang upside down until you can think of something better to do.”

Narrowing his optics, Brainstorm crossed his arms and stared back evenly at the Camien. “I’ll have you know I was upside down for  _at least_ nine hours earlier and the new perspective I gained was that I needed more time in the lab to do something with all the ideas trying to burst out of my brain processor. Time I have even  _less_ of now because of Perceptor’s new duties. Which means my processor is filling even  _more_ and even  _faster_ without giving me time to do anything with it. Soon I’ll have to delete files so I don’t lose any of my glorious ideas to the clutter!”

“How about you delete some of your centuries dedicated to the timecase to make room for a subroutine that gives you manners?” Nautica asked dryly.

“I was thinking of deleting the files that reminded me why we’re friends to begin with,” Brainstorm snapped back sarcastically.

While Nautica was halfway through a roll of her optics, they were nearly knocked out of the way by Velocity, who was truly allowing her speedster tendencies to show through as she was racing down the hall.

Thinking fast (as always), Brainstorm grabbed Nautica and kept her from being knocked over by her old sorority sister. “Whoa, what’s the lit ignition coil?” Brainstorm called out after the doctor.

More concerned, Nautica pushed off from Brainstorm and began giving chase to the green Camien. “Velocity? What’s the matter?”

“Yeesh,” Brainstorm muttered, dusting himself off after nearly being knocked over from the push. “And she thinks  _I_ need an update on my manners? What a joke.” He then looked to see that both the other bots were getting far ahead of him. He wasted no time in giving chase. “Hey, wait! I’m bored, and you’re obviously moving toward something more interesting than my perfectly crafted tools!”

Velocity, who was so frazzled Brainstorm was surprised steam was not being let off by her, looked widely toward Nautica for some kind of explanation for Brainstorm’s interruption. Fortunately the other Camien just shook her head.

“It’s, quite literally, a Brainstorm thing,” Nautica assured her. “Ignore him. What’s the emergency? Is everything okay? Is it the captain?”

Brainstorm felt less emboldened by the last question, though he wasn’t sure anymore if it was because of his concern for the truly bizarre and unnerving behavior Rodimus had put on display for the last few weeks or if it was because all of it still stemmed from the mystery that was Brainstorm’s same spell of forgetfulness and narrowly escaped death.

“Yes? No? Which one?” Velocity answered back in rapid succession.

“Um,” Nautica hesitated, obviously not expecting a full response for each of them.

Fortunately, she still had Brainstorm on her side for the time being. “Is it an emergency worth sounding the ship’s alarm? On a scale of one to ten how  _not okay_ are things? And typically we still think of Rodimus as captain, though that’s us Lost Light shenanigans  _veterans_ perspective, and I can’t speak for who you guys refer to as captain willy nilly.”

“Rodimus,” Nautica clarified, giving Brainstorm a look for overstepping to which he shrugged.

“I’d rather not alarm the ship, since I’ve been running to get away from the utter  _nonsense_ that was the doctoral team we have right now all arguing and angry and accomplishing nothing,” Velocity responded in a huff.

“Well, that  _is_ a sign that Ratchet’s back. Though I’m used to him running a tighter hospital bay,” Brainstorm said, holding his chin in thought.  

Velocity sent a  _look_ Brainstorm’s way that could freeze anyone’s joints in place before glaring forward again. “Well,  _personally,_ I’m not  used to constantly being undermined by colleagues seemingly no matter how much I prove myself and my skills on this ship,” she announced haughtily.

“That’s unfortunate, since that’s pretty much just how the Lost Light  _functions,”_ Brainstorm argued. “You wouldn’t believe how many times my genius has been brought into question by things like  _realistic expectations_ and  _ethical standards._ Real nonsense.”

“Velocity, I understand you’re upset, and I’ll be happy to use my wrench to knock some sense into  _anyone_ who questions you as a doctor,” Nautica assured her friend while keeping pace. “But you’re not heading in the direction of the medbay  _or_ Swerve’s, which I’d think were the best options under the circumstances.”

“You’re right, I’m not heading to either,” Velocity answered, looking seriously toward the two of them. “I’m  _apparently_ heading to the shipping dock.”

“You’re leaving?” Nautica gasped.

“Well this seemingly got extreme fairly fast,” Brainstorm noted.

“Only if I can’t convince my patient not to,” Velocity answered. Once she saw the perplexed looks on the other two’s faces she nervously scratched at her cheek. “You see, while the other doctors were measuring neural nets for some reason  _beyond_ me, I knew that no matter what changes he’s undergoing, Rodimus is still  _Rodimus_ and I fully anticipate him doing something unwarranted and dangerous to all the hard work we’ve put into repairs.”

“Is it really necessary to have a medical license for that assessment? If so, I should be a surgeon general at this moment,” Brainstorm joked.

“How do you know for  _sure_ he’s going to the docks, though?” Nautica asked curiously. “That still seems like a leap of logic.”

“Oh, I put a tracker on him during his last checkup,” Velocity answered nonchalantly. “Turns out my assessment was right but I underestimated Rodimus’ patience before going utterly reckless.”

“In your defense, no one would have believed he was capable of patience  _or_ a lack of recklessness,” Brainstorm continued to rib before Nautica threw an elbow back toward his chest to get him to stop.

“Is that ethical, Velocity?” Nautica asked worriedly.

“By medical standards or by Lost Light standards?” Velocity asked just as they turned the corner and were met by Nightbeat.

“Ah, good, you’re already on your way,” the detective said before turning quickly on his heels and leading the charge toward the docks.

“Wait, how are  _you_ already in on this?” Brainstorm demanded.

“Deductive reasoning,” Nightbeat answered without even looking bak toward them. Which neither of the Camiens took offense to but Brainstorm sure did.

“As a scientist, I have to say, I don’t think that that term means what you think it means,” Brainstorm announced just before they pushed through the dock doors and were met by the very surprised looks of Drift and Rodimus who were by a very much not the Rodpod ship. Much to the shock of anyone who remotely knew Rodimus.

“What the hell,” Rodimus stated flatly more than asked.

Drift had a much harsher glare and his hands resting on the hilts of his swords. “If this is an attempt to stop us from going to Cybertron, I’m afraid you’ll need to fail your mission.”

“Huh, Cybertron. I would have originally guessed it was Eukaris you were going to investigate, but leaping straight to the source of the greater picture is a much more thought out idea,” Nightbeat said resoundly.

“You’re not going  _anywhere_ without medical support,” Velocity said, waggling a finger at a perplexed looking Rodimus. “I have put  _far_ too much work into your recovery for you to halfway through it decide to throw yourself in danger without backup.”

Still looking very confused, Rodimus glanced toward Drift who seemed to only share his confusion with a shrug.

“And I’m part of the Rod Squad, so consider me offended that I wasn’t asked to come along to begin with,” Nautica announced, walking toward the ship.

Night beat and Velocity were not far behind, though Nautica did stop long enough to look back at Brainstorm curiously. “Are you coming, too?”

“Absolutely,” Brainstorm said, coming forward. “You  _know_ how bored I have been here. And let’s be honest, if I’m left without you three to annoy consistently, I’ll just be looking for answers to these questions myself.”

“What about you getting arrested,” Rodimus asked Brainstorm critically. “You’re supposed to not set pede on Cybertron aren’t you?”

“I don’t think any of us are,” Drift reminded Rodimus.

“Looks like we’re all lawbreakers together,” Brainstorm concluded. “What else is new?”

* * *

Rattrap could all but feel the scorn being sent his way as he ventured through the capital’s halls.

It went without saying that he had never really been popular, being the voice of Starscream, Supreme Ruler or not, did little to help anybot’s image of course. But there was a uniquely traitorous ring to the murmurs that surrounded a former Autobot who sided with the most hated of former Decepticons.

Being an essential source of information was the only power that Rattrap could use to keep himself alive in the current environment on Cybertron. And yet he was proving time and again to be woefully inaccurate.

The entire Council of Worlds doubting and eventually verbally siding  _against_ his testimony despite him being among their ranks most certainly didn’t help matters there. 

As such, even Rattrap’s usefulness to Starscream himself was being brought into question. And if he wasn’t useful to Starscream then, well, it was questionable how much use someone who knew too many secrets for his own good could be at all.

Being summoned to the laboratories just beneath the capital building by Starscream out of the blue, after a much noted distancing between them, seemed ominous. And it would have been an  _excellent_ time to let some friends know where he was going and who for, if Rattrap had had any friends. But alone and with only his caution to look after him, Rattrap scurried to his summoning.

A task which led to one of the biggest processor halts in his long lifetime.

“You, uh… called for me, Supreme Ruler…?” Rattrap asked with uncharacteristic timidness, leaning through partially opened doors and seeing the familiar frame of Starscream himself. A sight that did not take his attention for long as Starscream was — much to the rat’s relief — far from being alone.

The Prime was there, intimidating and large as ever, and beside him was Delegate Windblade which seemed like an  _obvious_ companion though somehow it still managed to take the beastformer by surprise considering all the wild news going around.

Not too far from them were the ever busied scientists of Wheeljack and Jetfire, scanning somebots in a transmatter scanner which obscured Rattrap’s view of them. Not that he needed to know exactly  _who_ the other bots were to know that he was completely surrounded by witnesses so the likelihood of getting the brunt end of Starscream’s anger at the moment seemed highly unlikely. So… probably  _not_ indefinite prison sentencing?

“Rattrap,” Starscream called, only tilting his head back slightly to acknowledge his right hand bot’s entrance. “You have been in some hot oil for the last few days in thanks to incorrectly identifying your attackers as some fellow Cybertronians, correct?”

“Well, I never called them  _attackers_ per se, just said they were painted in a whole hubabaloo like part of those crazy cultists and seemed to be working on this Error-screw-loose’s side ’til the very last minute when they pulled my aft out of the proverbial energy fire.” He hesitated, remembering that the conclusiveness of the description had been his exact undoing before the Council. “Eh…  _allegedly.”_

Starscream didn’t seem moved nor did he seem altogether that curious about Rattrap’s questionable story. His full attention seemed to be on the scanners.

“If you saw these bots again, could you identify them?” Starscream asked sharply.

Still not catching on, Rattrap shrugged. “Why sure. But last time I did, everybody got their circuits in a twist ‘cuz they didn’t like what I had to say,” he reminded them all. When he noticed Optimus and Windblade’s glares, he flinched back slightly. “Eh, no offense or nothing to present company, of course.”

“Scan’s are complete,” Jetfire announced, sounding baffled. “And if I didn’t see the results myself… Well…”

“I know, I wouldn’t believe it either,” Wheeljack agreed, turning the transmatter off and allowing it to open with a hiss. “Starscream, they’re telling the complete truth, just like Windblade was. Spark signatures, energon grades — the whole kit and kibble’s exactly what they say. They’re who they say they are.”

“Who says? What’s going on?” Rattrap asked before stepping all the way through the door.

When the doors opened and the two bots stepped out from the scanners, Rattrap’s jaw nearly unhinged itself to drop far enough to express his disbelief.

Standing before them was none other than Windblade and Rodimus — the exact same black and red paint jobs that Rattrap had seen on them in the sewers before they pulled their puff-of-smoke disappearing act — the same wear and tear on their large frames. The same everything from what Rattrap had seen before.

Just to make sure he could believe his own optics, Rattrap glanced back to the part of the room where Windblade stood with the Prime, then he looked to where she stood with Rodimus. There were differences, but they were both obviously the same Camien and they were both obviously existing in the same room at the same time.

“Holy Pit,” Rattrap gasped, grabbing the edges of his head. “What  _is going on?”_

“Supposedly time travel,” Starscream answered sourly, crossing his arms. “I  _despise_ the concept.”

“Yeah, well, I despise the practice of it,” Rodimus spat back at him before looking back to the scientists. “Since you’re done proving who we are I’d appreciate having  _it_ back now, thank you.”

“Right,” Wheeljack answered, going to the side and returning with, to Rattrap’s complete shock, looked like a completed Matrix, and then timidly handed it to Rodimus.

The supposed time traveler then opened his chest — a far broader space than the Rodimus who had been with them in the medical wing just a short time ago — and placed the holy relic in place like it had always belonged there. And once it was locked, he closed his chest as if the maneuver had been nothing, letting out a quick vent of relief once it was done.

“You still have not disclosed how the Matrix is brought back to its whole,” Optimus Prime then said lowly. “Considering that currently mine still remains in parts after…  _Rodimus_ told me he used up the half which I had given him.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Rodimus-apparent promised. When he received looks of disbelief he held up his hands. “Optimus is the one who told — er,  _tells_ — me the story someday so… I have confidence in you, Big Bot.”

The red-and-black Windblade then placed a hand on the chest of Rodimus to stop him and looked to the rest of the room intently. “I know there are probably  _many_ questions which you all have for us, but we both have to be fairly cautious in what we’re ready to tell you of your futures or not. Even what we’re doing right now is of great risk and only because we are filling in the roles as I remember them being three million years ago.” She then shared a long glance with her  _past_ self, which was just about enough to make Rattrap’s optics spin out of socket.

Rattrap shook his head. “Whoa, whoa,  _whoa,_ let’s take it back a step or two here, folks,” he called out, stepping forward. “You’re wanting to tell us that you’re time travelers from three million years in the future? Here to… what? Fulfill a  _literal_ self-fulfilling prophecy? Ex _cuse_ me for having a bit of a difficult time swallowing this.”

Rodimus-apparent crossed his arms and looked annoyed at Rattrap. “This is why I didn’t want to save him, Windblade.”

“But you already  _did_ save him, Prime,” she reminded him.

At that the Rodimus-apparent groaned and rolled back his head, giving Rattrap a good look at the deep, dark scarring on the right side of his faceplate — matching up almost exactly with what injuries the Rodimus on trial had shown.

“See, this is  _exactly_ what I meant about hating time traveling,” he professed.

“What the Pit,” Rattrap continued in sheer amazement.

“Enough of all this,” Starscream said sourly, pointing toward the time displaced mechs. “Rattrap, do  _these_ bots seem like a closer match to the ones you saw within Error’s cult down in the sewers?”

Full alert, Rattrap looked wide eyed from the two mystery mechs then to Starscream before nodding rapidly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I’d bet my spark on it, Lord Starscream. This is them! No  _doubt!”_

“That’s what I needed to hear,” Starscream said loftily. “Windblade —  _our_ Windblade — you’re off the hook officially. I want these two arrested, unless you have an objection to that, Prime.”

“I do,” both Optimus and the red-and-black Rodimus said at the same time.

The two then looked awkwardly at each other as if they were utterly startled by the other answering.

“You can’t do that,” the time displaced Windblade announced, walking toward Starscream. “The fewer bots who know about the distortion of time, the better. You must understand, us being in this time is a  _great risk_ to all of Cybertron and the Council of Worlds’ futures. It is not a decision we made lightly or,” her eyes glanced back to her younger self, “without some precedent, as you can imagine.”

“If it’s so dangerous to interrupt time as we know it, then why do it at all?” Jetfire asked.

“Oh, just felt the need to make a few failed experimental offshoot universes in my Primacy. I missed doing it on the Lost Light so much,” Rodimus answered in full sarcasm.

“Because your current problems are not entirely of your own time,” Windblade answered more accurately. “They’re of ours… We are  _not_ the only one who have interfered with your time by going back ourselves. The one you all know as Error is using the technology we have to try and enforce his views of religious Primal Purity on the past and prevent the Peaceful Reconciliation of our time. To prevent the Exchange and thus prevent the diversification of the Cybertronian races again.”

The current Windblade put a hand to her spark chamber. “All of those things… they sound wonderful… Why would anyone not want them?”

“Well, world peace comes at too high of a price when you’re a bigot,” Rodimus declared flatly.

“I have yet to hear a single reason I should not go through with arresting the both of you for endangering all of space-time and apparently providing technology to a terrorist organization,” Starscream said haughtily. “In other words,  _what are you proposing to do for me and my Cybertron.”_

“I suppose it wouldn’t be obvious to you all now,” the older Windblade sighed, putting a thoughtful hand to her chin. “But it’s very much within your interests that we stay here, Lord Starscream.”

Current Windblade physically recoiled. “Did I just willingly call him  _Lord_ Starscream?” she asked rhetorically.

“One of Error’s main objectives beyond just destroying the line of succession of the Primacy is to destroy the leader responsible for the new Golden Age of Cybertron,” Rodimus continued, though the look on his face made it seem as though every word was painful. “That means… well, it means killing you, Starscream. Assassinating you will prevent you from accidentally falling into world peace.”

Rattrap joined the entire room at looking at Starscream in utter shock, though no face was more stunned than Starscream’s own.

“Me?” he got out before a sly smile came to his lips. “Do tell.”

* * *

Drift stayed in the back of the ship, allowing the others to handle navigating them to Cybertron and past any of security measures or blockades that Starscream and his Council of Worlds might have had prepared for them. By staying in the back, he stayed closer to Rodimus and was able to keep an eye on his closest friend and see the lackluster glow of his optics as Rodimus scratched at the temporary paint on his bare replacement shell.

He was still himself, down to his spark. Drift could  _feel_ Rodimus’ field no matter how much he tried to assert that he was Hot Rod again.

What others often forgot about them was that Drift had been there with the Wreckers when they had Hot Rod among their ranks, and he had been there after the Primacy itself was saved by Rodimus’ selfless actions and Optimus renamed him from that day forward.

In those moments, so much unlike any time before or since, Drift had felt a complete change in Rodimus’ spark signature and onew that the feeling he had spent so much of his life looking for was there. That the Prime he knew would lead them into their Golden Age, that caused the same vibrations of his spark as the great swords of the Circle of Light managed, was in the tiny speedster from Nyon. Even if no one else in the cosmos could see it yet.

Which made it just that much more painful to see his friend in the confused, angry, and hurt state that he was in.

Looking around to make sure that the others were a good enough distance away to not overhear, Drift glanced back to Rodimus more seriously and interrupted their silence. “Why Nyon?” he asked lowly.

“It’s on my mind,” Rodimus replied shortly.

“That could be Shadowplay,” Drift warned cautiously. “It could be a trap. It could be anything.”

“If it is, then that’s just more of a reason for us to have to go,” Rodimus answered. “Because it’s on my mind. Because it still makes me feel sick, like energy went bad in my fuel tank or my coolant ran dry. Because I feel sick about it, but I don’t feel that way toward any other bad things I’ve done.” His optics focused on Drift’s face. There was something haunting about how one eye remained untouched while the other was wide and circular without form thanks to the damage inflicted on Rodimus’ faceplate. “And I think I’ve done a  _lot_ of things to feel guilty about but don’t. Haven’t I?”

That was, without a doubt, a loaded question, but Drift was not one to let himself go untested.

“There is not a single mech among all of us who couldn’t say the same, Rodim…  _Hot Rod,”_ Drift replied gently. “Autobot, Decepticon — By Primus, it seems the more I learn of our colonies and their worlds the more damaged and unclean their own hands seem to be in matters, too. We wear the scars of a race bent on war and disarray. It is unthinkable that any of us could know peace. Let alone within ourselves.”

Rodimus looked off again, scratching at his chipped paint. “Why have you stayed friends with me?” he asked coldly. “Why would anyone still follow me? You all tell me that my processor’s got its wires all crossed and wrong now, but whenever I say that I’ve caused death and destruction, no one can argue with me. At that point, he even  _cares_ about the specifics of exactly what I am or am not guilty of. And why would someone I’ve been so terrible to feel they can still be my friend and expect anything different whatsoever?”

A little surprised, Drift tilted his helm. “You mean you… feel guilty about me?” he asked.

“About as much as Nyon,” he confessed, squeezing his good hand tightly into a fist. “Though… it doesn’t feel as new or fresh as the sickness with Nyon.”

Drift shifted, never losing sight of Rodimus as he reached out and placed a firm hand on Rodimus’ good shoulder. “What you’re feeling? The way it makes you sick when you know something’s wrong? That’s the reason that even though you make mistakes, even though sometimes it hurts, we believe in you. We believe in you because those mistakes give you a chance to learn and to understand all of us and our mistakes better than any leader Cybertron’s had before.”

Rodimus finally looked back at Drift. “Before… before all of this? Did… Did I at least apologize—“

They both lurched forward as the ship began to break through the atmosphere of Cybertron. The conversation had to wait.

“We’re coming in on Nyon, Rod—Hot— Sir!” Nautica announced from the front of the ship.

“Using my shortcut!” Brainstorm asserted.

After a moment, Drift vented sharply and squeezed Rodimus’ shoulder again before getting up. “Do you have any specific idea what we’re looking for at Nyon?” he asked his leader.

“That sort of preplanning isn’t usually how I do things,” Rodimus answered, accepting Drift’s hand to help him get on his feet.

“For future reference,” Drift chuckled, “the honesty is a good change. You should keep it up.”

“Wow,” Velocity muttered, opening the hatch and looking out into the rusted, old ruins of the once prosperous city. “It’s… completely gutted.”

“I never saw it before the War, it was always like this to me,” Brainstorm replied, following the Camiens off the ship.

“I visited it once,” Nightbeat told them, scratching at his cheek. “It honestly wasn’t much back then either. But it was filled to the optics in peddlers and shock jocks.”

Years since his last charge and Drift still couldn’t help but flinch at the slang.

“They were all still Cybertronians,” Rodimus declared lowly as he followed the crew off the ship. “They were lives. And they deserved better than—“

Drift was following Rodimus off the ship closely, protectively even, which made his view of the event all the more stunning and unbelievable.

The moment Rodimus’ pede hit the grounds of Nyon, there was a shift in the energy around the whole abandoned city. There was an enormous surge — like the plates themselves were opening up to the damaged mech. it was a distantly familiar sensation to what Drift had witnessed before, though it had been  _ages_ ago, at the very earliest stages of the Decepticon rebellion.

Then the ground opened up to a slow, but growing burn of energy and light, miles wide, unbelievable and  _real._ Something that hadn’t been seen in ages.

“It’s…” Velocity gasped.

“A Hot Spot,” Drift completed. He looked at Rodimus in wonder. “You… you were sensing a Hot Spot. Somehow you knew—“

“No, I didn’t,” Rodimus tried to defend, though Drift could not imagine why he would be reluctant to accept the praise.

When Rodimus turned around, he was surrounded by concerned looks from everyone who had traveled with them from the Lost Light, and it was the sort of thing that he  _obviously_ was not interested in. His face turned into a snarl and he vicious waved everyone off.

“It’s not the reason we’re here!” he growled out.

Drift looked on in amazement. “Rodimus—“

“It’s  _Hot Rod!”_ Rodimus spat.

“ _Sir,”_ Velocity interjected. “You just used your right arm again! You were able to move it, the neural net hasn’t been damaged after all! Look! It must have been psychosomatic!”

“Psycho- _what?_ What are you talking about?” Rodimus demanded before glancing down to the once more loosely hanging arm at his side. Rather than disappointment or outrage however, a look of complete terror came across his face as he saw that from the palm up, his arm was producing a red hot flame. Instinctively, he tried to back away from his own appendage with a yell of shock and disgust, but rather than get him anywhere, he merely smacked into Drift’s side.

Without a second’s thought, Drift caught onto Rodimus’ shoulders and held him up. “It’s fine, just concentrate. Think of turning it off.”

“I-I can’t,” Rodimus stammered.

“That’s okay, you usually burn through your fuel fairly fast when you use your outlier ability,” Drift reminded him calmly. “We’ll just use some of our reserve energon once it’s out.” Drift then looked intently toward Velocity. “We  _do_ have supplies of additional energon, don’t we?”

“What kind of doctor do you think I am? Of course we do,” Velocity said with a long suffering sigh of annoyance. “Even when Ratchet and First Aid  _aren’t_ around, I swear.”

Brainstorm held a hand to his chin. “That’s fascinating, I never knew that about Rodimus’ outlier ability. I bet you if I could run a few tests on him using it I could fix up whatever it is that’s causing the overabundance of fuel loss.”

“But why is he suddenly scared of fire?” Nightbeat asked. “Is it something to do with Nyon—“

“What about this Hot Spot? What are we supposed to do with all these sparks? They need formation, we need to call someone — this is a  _new generation_ of our species!” Nautica tried to remind them all.

All at once Rodimus pushed off from Drift and slung his arm again, finally causing the flames to go out. “Everyone  _shut up_ I’m right here! And it’s not  _me_ causing this Hot Spot, I didn’t come here because I sensed it, we’re here because… I remember it — this is where I fragged it. I sent everything to straight to the Pits!”

Drift felt his spark clench. “Rodimus, don’t say that. I wasn’t there at Nyon — none of us were, and none of us can pretend to know what it must have been like for you. But you can’t be guilty about a decision you had no  _choice_ in. Believe me, I know about  _rightful guilt._ The choices I’ve made… what I live to redeem are beyond anything you’ve done—“

“Drift, shut up!” Rodimus snapped angrily, looking at him wildly. “I’m not talking… I  _am_ talking about what I did to Nyon, but I’m also remembering… I remember what I did that caused the war, that broke  _everything.”_

Everyone grew silent in their shared confusion, a few glances wavering between each other. And Drift was no exception. He looked at his friend with complete and utter befuddlement.

“Rodimus, there was  _already_ a war before Nyon. You were one of the Freedom Fighters, you should know—“ Nightbeat began.

“No, I started the  _War,”_ Rodimus continued, looking at everyone with an expression of shock of his own. “I led him… I showed him where and… It was me. I should’ve guard it, it wasn’t ready to be found by  _anyone._ It shouldn’t have been used the way it was… and I…” He vented loudly and let his shoulders slump, almost in resignation. “I… I led Orion Pax to the Matrix of Leadership. I restarted the true Primal Line again. It wasn’t time. It wasn’t what Primus wanted.”

The babbling was all but incoherent to Drift and from the looks the others were giving, it was likewise incoherent to them, but a distant, loud clap seemed to disagree.

They all turned, Drift with his swords at the draw. And to Drift’s dismay they were met by the large, looming image of the terrorist who had been on all the screens of Cybertron during the attacks, the mech responsible for attacking their captain and crew.

The large mech Error was clapping, his red eyes boring down on Rodimus in particular.

“At last, my message is interpreted,” Error announced lowly as his cultish members began revealing themselves from hiding as well.

“How did they hide their EMF fields and spark signatures from us?” Drift growled out.

“I don’t know. I’ve been working on some kind of dampener that would help cloaking more but I’ve barely been able to tinker with it thanks to my lack of lab access!” Brainstorm announced.

“You,” Rodimus snarled savagely. “I remember  _you.”_

“You should be starting to remember a lot, my Prime,” Error said with a strangely soft tone, almost as if some remote fondness existed between them.

“Your…  _Prime?”_ Nautica asked in confusion.

“Rodimus Prime was my Prime, before I saw Primus’ guidance for myself,” Error announced turning his hands over so the palms faced upward, measured flames burned out from them. “Now I shall make sure you will be my Prime no more.”

“What the hell is going on?” Brainstorm squawked.

“Someone teach this guy how to keep his tenses straight,” Nautica attempted to say in light humor.

“No, don’t you get it?” Nightbeat asked, as if that meant anything to the rest of them. “The tense confusion, the technology beyond even our own, the way he and his cult members seem to disappear and reappear at random?”

“Spell it out, Nightbeat!” Drift ordered, gripping his swords harder as he tried to estimate their odds.

“These guys are from the future. Or  _a_ future where Rodimus is a Prime!” Nightbeat exclaimed.

“A future that shall never be again!” Error roared before charging for them.


	21. 5.1: Heavy is the Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this has been a very, very long wait for most of you and I deeply apologize for that, but we’re so close to the end. Only four updates away now. And Part V is incredibly intimidating for me on my end since, well, everything needs to be wrapped up and completed, and I’m hoping to deliver this story to you all in the best and most enjoyable way possible. I hope I manage that with today’s update too!
> 
> Special thanks to squireofgeekdom, Isame, and brokenEisenglas for the feedback!

Optimus, even as Orion Pax, had never thought of his pragmatism as a  _flaw_ , nor did he believe that his lack of interest in mysticism and the occult did his judgment a disservice. He understood technology, he understood character, and he understood  _power balance._ And he did so almost in strictly terms of gray.

Sometimes sacrifices needed to be made to balance powers in the right direction, to work for the greater good.

And though there was a science to the fantastical tale these  _future_ Rodimus and Windblade weaved, the fact that it was still very much  _fantastical_ kept the Prime from being completely won over.

Not to mention, the very  _notion_ that Starscream was somehow capable of bringing Cybertron into a new, peaceful Golden Age did not endear Optimus to them in the least.

“And you’re  _certain_ you can’t tell me how long my reign will be?” Starscream continued, hand firmly on his chin as he looked thoughtfully at the time travelers.

“If we tell you too much we risk changing everything,” Windblade — the older, less decorated one — reminded him impatiently. “Probably for the worst, to be honest.”

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want that,” Starscream agreed. “I need to continue my leadership just as if I had no idea that this was happening. For the good of the planet, of course.”

“Oh, please,” the current Windblade muttered, crossing her arms across her chest and rolling her optics back into her head. Fortunately, it seemed to be low enough that Starscream either felt he could ignore it or hadn’t heard it to begin with.

“What’s the matter, Prime? Turbofox have your tongue?” Starscream asked Optimus instead, looking incredibly smug at the moment. Which, in effect, Optimus tried desperately to remind himself that it was just the set of Starscream’s face in a way. “Time travelers came from the future to let us know I usher in an entirely new Golden Age for Cybertron. You must be  _thrilled_ at the prospects for our future.”

“We didn’t really travel millions of years into the past to fluff egos,” Rodimus argued.

“I am pleased to know that long sought after peace is nearly within Cybertron’s grasps, Starscream,” Optimus answered steadily, keeping his voice low and reserved. “How it is ushered in and under what power becomes increasingly of less importance. I am simply thrilled at the prospect of ending this strife and destruction.”

Looking at Optimus in some amusingly exaggerated awe, Rodimus laughed. “By Primus, I have missed just how amazing your speeches were.”

“A defining trait according to the archives,” older Windblade teased  before the doors of the laboratory burst open.

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion!?” Starscream shouted at the guards who filed in. “I’m listening to nostalgia for my reigning superiority over the people of Cybertron and all of its blessed

“Sir, we apologize, but there has been a breach in the blockade,” the soldier reported to Starscream directly.

“What!?” Starscream screeched. “What is the entire  _point_ of a blockade then?”

“That’s the problem, Lord Starscream, our blockade is mostly concerned with the ship fields and Iacon… this was a breach on an entirely different side of the planet. It was in the abandoned districts.”

“Was it Kaon?” Optimus asked immediately, stepping toward the guard.

Starscream glowered toward him. “Of  _course_ your first instincts blame  _Deceptions._ Once an Autobot, they say.”

“Actually, Sir, it wasn’t Kaon,” the soldier said, turning to ward Optimus. “It was the remains of  _Nyon._ And we have a trace on the ship. It belongs to the Lost Light. I don’t know if that means anything—“

“It mean everything,” Optimus answered, immediately heading toward the door toward himself.

“Where do you think you’re going, Prime! You don’t have my permission to leave!” Starscream snarled.

“I doubt I will need further confirmation on my actions, Optimus said clearly.

He had every intention of walking straight out of the laboratory with that final line, but to his surprise and annoyance, the time traveling Rodimus got in the way,

“We need to talk about this before we do anything brash and… timeline-changey,” Rodimus said clearly.

“No more than you and Windblade have already decided for us,” Optimus shot back.

“Well, to begin with, that’s a  _little_ unfair, don’t you think?” Rodimus said with feigned hurt. “Secondly, maybe while working on those memories, you can actually think about the consequences here since an entire  _timeline_ is something I’ve set in some future historical texts already.”

“Do you know who would be at Nyon?” Optimus demanded.

“I think you don’t need confirmation,” Rodimus explained with nodding support coming form Windblade behind him. “But yes, I know — or, rather, I  _remember_ what’s going to happen next. For the most part. It’s going to get… really confusing  _very_ quickly.”

“We are already  _at_ confusing,” Optimus assured him, continuing to make his way to the door.

“Yes, but we’re talking not only about the logistics of time traveling and interference, Optimus Prime, but the actual possibility of forever changing the good that may come from all of this,” Windblade assured him.

“Good?” Optimus asked, turning to face the travelers as well as the rest of the group gathered in the laboratory. “Nothing good can come from extremism, from blind worship, from this… line of Primes which have continued to reign unjustly until Cybertron was all but dead.” He paused and looked intently at the future Rodimus’ face, so heavily scarred with the print of a hand that Optimus had seen on their own time’s Rodimus days before. “From allowing self mutilation to appear to others as some sort of stigmata in a future further perverting of what is just handed down stories of creation and destruction.”

“That’s not what this is,” Rodimus said, pointing toward his faceplate. “It’s a reminder, every day, to myself and to every bot I meet, that a price comes with everything we do and everything we achieve. And that we have to wear our mistakes if we survive them.”

The others in the room looked at Rodimus with widened optics.

He noticed and immediately offered a sly smile, shrugging. “It takes a few million years but I got good at pep talks  _eventually.”_

Optimus was far from convinced, however. “What you wear as a scar, I saw Error and a dozen acolytes wear as a symbol of disorder and hatred,” he said plainly. “That is not a symbol on today’s Cybertron, and I find it hard to believe it could come about in a supposed  _new Golden Age.”_

“That’s because you don’t  _actually_ know Error or why he’s been toying with everyone until today,” Rodimus answered.

“Yes, supposed future Prime,” Starscream said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the nearest wall. “I  _would_ like an explanation as to why this  _grave threat_ couldn’t be revealed to us before it happened or if it  _is_ capable of destroying my glorious legacy — the  _new Golden Age_ , brought in by  _me_ , once again — why it wasn’t done sooner.” His nose curled in disgust. “Or what  _ever_ anyone could want in a dump like Nyon currently.”

“Because,” Rodimus said, hands on his hips. “Today, at Nyon, is the day that Error and the First New Generation of Cybertron first ignited their sparks. And any changes he wished to make could only  _really_  take affect once he was sure he wouldn’t be insuring his own destruction.”

For a moment, there was only silence, then Optimus stepped forward himself, breaking it. “There is a Hot Spot in Nyon today?” he asked critically.

Rodimus’ smile grew somewhat brittle and he looked right into Optimus’ optics. “The most important Hot Spot in Cybertrons post-War history. The Hot Spot that will unite the Council and breathe a new sense of alliances between all Cybertronians once and for all.”

“And it is imperative that it be saved before Error can ensure that only his own spark is allowed to thrive,” old Windblade announced.

“Then there is no time to waste,” Optiimus agreed. “Let’s roll out!”

* * *

The oath of  _Do No Harm_  was difficult to maintain in the middle of a war zone, and if anything was to make Velocity appreciate First Aid and Ratchet’s unorthodox perspective in the medical world, it was most definitely going to be the combination of their last stand on the Necroworld and the horrors of the fight before them in the middle of a sea of newly emerged sparks.

The lumbering giant of a mech lunged at them, fists alight with flames. And while the others were quick to move out of the way, Velocity all but grabbed her hardheaded captain to dive out of the way with him since he was standing his ground.

Immediately, Rodimus began pulling and fighting against Velocity’s hold, even as it saved his life. “Let go of me!” he growled. “Velocity! I’m ordering you—“

“You might still be my captain at spark, Rodimus, but I’m your  _doctor_ and keeping what’s available of your kibble alive is going to be worth putting up with your complaining!” Velocity fought back angrily.

“Don’t call me Rodimus!” he snapped at her. “And don’t you see?  _He’s the guy!_ The one that… He messed me up! He confused me and… He  _made me_ by— Velocity, fragsake  _let go_ of me!”

“Everything that’s come out of your voice box has just made me more sure than ever before that I am  _not_ letting go of you,” Velocity replied sternly. “So just go ahead and drop that idea from your mind,  _Hot Rod._ You’re damaged, and as long as you’re damaged,  _I outrank you!”_

Rodimus stared at her with a mixture of surprise and anger that left him uncharacteristically speechless.

If she had had the time, Velocity would have basked in her assertiveness but there was a vicious roar from their attacker that drew her attention instead. And most horrifying of all, she finally could see not only the damage she had rescued Rodimus from, but what effect it had on the area surrounding his point of attack.

“No! The Sparklings!” Velocity gasped in horror. She let go of Rodimus and covered her mouth in shock. Her insides felt twisted and coiled in revolt against the senseless loss. “He snuffed out an entire patch of young sparks! An entire grouping of young life and it’s all gone. What horrible kind of  _creature_ is this thing—“

Before she could continue rambling in terror, Rodimus took off from beside her at a speed and with a dexterity he had not shown since waking from stasis.

Velocity whipped back into doctor mode and got to her feet. “Rodimus! Stop right there!” she yelled.

Wasting no time, Velocity transformed mid leap into her alt-mode, hitting the ground at full speed and living up to her name in order to keep up with the damaged captain. Her damaged captain that was determined to put himself  _right_ in the midst of the stand off between Nightbeat, Brainstorm, Nautica, Drift and the horrific Error.

“Error!” Rodimus growled out, his hands suddenly enveloping in a white hot flame themselves.

The bulky monstrosity slowly turned, just enough to see Rodimus and grow an unnerving grin. “Ah. At last, my Prime. At last we meet, and at last I shall handedly give you a defeat.”

“Rodimus! Get out of here!” Drift yelled as he lunged for Error with his swords drawn. There was a clang of swords against armor, but Error had managed to hold off any damage by keeping his heavily armored forearm up.

Drift was bearing as much weight down with his swords as he could, determined to break through the armor Error was hiding behind, but when the metal was broken enough, it ht a thick rubber tread, which caused Drift’s optics to widen in surprise.

“Ah, there we are,” Error said almost gleefully before beginning to start up the treads on his arms, the fast rotation sounding like a saw that led to Drift’s swords shattering at the friction.

Taking advantage of the swordsmech’s shock, Error then landed a powerful kick to Drift’s chest, sending him flying backward into the rest of the Rod Squad.

“Pathetic,” Error chuckled, aiming his hand at the group as a flame grew.

Seeing there were only a few feet between Rodimus and Error at that point, Velocity slung herself around, skidding to a halt between them as if to create a border with her own body between Rodimus and Error. “Rodimus!” she yelled at him angrily.

It did nothing to stop the determined Rodimus, however, as he just leaped, kicking off of Velocity’s alt-mode to propel himself at Error.

“What the hell did you  _do_ to me?” Rodimus roared, landing a flaming punch against Error’s cheek.

Even Velocity felt slightly in awe of the moment as it played out, as that was not exactly a small feat by any means. The others seemed to join her in their amazement, though —  _that_ was their Rodimus back. Impulsive, feisty, full of fire.

But that awe was quick to disappear the moment he landed and his less armored, still healing frame crumpled under the momentum of his jump and sent him falling over himself, his damaged side hitting the ground and inspiring an anguished yelp.

“Rodimus!” Drift called out, immediately getting to the captain’s side. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be better when someone takes that fragger  _down,”_ Rodimus gritted out, looking pale. “Also… maybe some fuel could help out.”

Brainstorm, surprisingly enough, stepped forward, looking more curious than anything else, head tilted. “The technology you’re using to come to our time? To disguise yourself and your followers? If you’re  _really_ a time traveller, tell me how many times my worst-best ideas are used to come back and bite all of us in the aft in the future. I think as their creator I deserve to at least know this much.”

“Brainstorm!” Nautica snapped. “That’s not helpful!”

“It  _could_ be if I know which ones are bad, I’ll keep a tighter lid on them and make sure they’re not mass produced,” Brainstorm offered.

“You’re still going to  _make them_?” Nautica demanded.

“Obviously. They work,” Brainstorm replied candidly.

“Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if he chooses to make them or not, because they’ve already been made in this future!” Nightbeat corrected them all. “He has to create them for this paradox to happen to begin with. He can’t choose to change that. Which is also probably why Brainstorm was the only one left undamaged on the Eukaris attack — his future inventions and the survival of those inventions are things that were necessary to get us to this point. And, more importantly, to get Error and his followers here.”

“None of that is answering  _my_ question!” Rodimus snarled viciously as Drift helped him stand up. “What did you do to  _me? Why? Why_ did you let me survive instead of making… making—“

Velocity transformed back into her natural mode, looking at the scene from the other side of Error. Her spark was pulsing strong, so much anxiety at once.

She had an instinctive, intuitive  _need_ to get to Rodimus — to her  _patient_ — and keep him from stupidly stumbling into further physical  _or_ psychological damage. But she also needed to see what Rodimus  _knew_  and had refused so far to share with all the doctors and friends and crew around him just what he remembered or what had happened.

And she needed to save the young lives surrounding them as well. Her duty as a doctor  _called_ for it.

“The answer is the same for everything,” Error answered. “I played you, my former Prime. I played you like the instrument of my own design just as is asked of me by Primus himself. He guided my hand, and likewise I used my gifts to guide  _yours.”_

“Shadowplay,” Velocity all but whispered to herself, realizing how the pieces were beginning to fit.

“But  _why?”_ Nightbeat pressed Error.

“So that we could meet like this on this day,” Error said confidently, raising his hands to reveal that during the excitement, his acolytes had spread out into the field of the Hot Spot. “And you could watch as we used Primus’ Guiding Light to take away from you the very future you all have worked to build — that you all sought while being  _so_ undeserving, one and all.”

Sparing no time, Velocity shouted to her friends, “Spread out! Save the Sparklings!” she ordered, turning to race back to the ship.

“Velocity! What about you?” Nautica cried out in fear.

“I’m calling Ratchet and First Aid!” Velocity answered. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Don’t you  _dare_ defy my planning!” Error roared.

In the corner of her vision, Velocity could see the giant mech turning to stomp in her direction. She aptly shifted back to her alt-mode to speed off from him. Surely, given the difference of frames, he would have no chance to keep up with her.

But what she  _hadn’t_ taken into account was that he didn’t need to reach her.

Instead, the lumbering giant pressed his wrists together, aimed in Velocity’s direction, and shot a hurdling ball of fire in her direction.

Swerving to avoid it, Velocity couldn’t zigzag enough to avoid being singed by the fireball, leading to her letting out a scream of pain.

She nearly flipped in her alt-mode, but a quick transformation held her skid, somewhat painfully, on her knees for a distance.

While Velocity pushed to her feet, she fully expected for Error to take advantage and finish her, but when he didn’t she looked back to see why. To her surprise, rather than spreading out and protecting the Hot Spot, her friends had all tackled onto Error’s arm, keeping him from aiming it.

“Velocity!” Rodimus growled out as he helped the others. “Get to the ship and call for help!  _That’s an order! You’re not allowed to die today!_ I’m saying that as your  _captain!_ So do it!”

Velocity felt her chest raise and she nodded. “Yessir!” she yelled back before turning and racing to the ship to do just that.

* * *

Starscream almost did a double take when he walked down the halls and found none other than Windblade standing in wait for him just outside the Council’s chamber.

She had a muted expression, thoughtful but purposefully reserved. Her eyes, as usual, were her real give, though. They shone with intrigue, concern, and anxiousness. If she was  _ever_ to live in the world of politics, someone was going to need to teach her how to keep such blanketed emotions under wraps.

He sure as the Pits wasn’t going to waste time doing it, that was all Starscream knew for sure.

“Windblade, you’re  _here,”_ he said, letting the snideness come through. “Rather than placing yourself in the thick of what’s sure to be almost clear destruction. I find it hard to believe that you grew a sense of self-preservation since your last excursion into snooping, so why are you here instead of following Optimus Prime and all the other fake future Primes out into the middle of nowhere for what’s certain to be a complete and total trap?”

For a moment,  _just_ a moment, Windblade let her optics harshen their glow and she put her hands on her hips. “Do you really care why I’m still here, Starscream?” she asked.

“No, not in the slightest,” he assured her. “I only care so far as how it’s going to effect what I’m having to do now to make sure that  _regardless_ of what happens in the junk heaps of a forgotten slum, this planet continues to spin on its axis and all its citizens — here and abroad — maintain some sense of order and security.”

“Then we’re here for the same thing,” Windblade assured him, glancing off.

Dissatisfied, Starscream moved in closer to her. “But, to sate some of my curiosity on the matter…” he began.

Windblade turned completely toward Starscream and looked him straight in the optics. “If some future version of yourself came into the past to try to stop someone from the future from using your religion as an excuse for destroying  _literal Sparklings_ , how would you feel about it? Would you want to follow this anomaly into battle? Possibly learn more about what kind of bot you will be shaped into over time?”

“Hm,” Starscream hummed in response. “I suppose I would never know since I carry no faith, seriously doubt the credibility of those who claim to be traversing through time, and most of all, the very  _idea_ that there would ever be a  _Rodimus_ Prime.” He scoffed and shook his head. “And you Camiens question why most Cybertronians have ignored the sanctimonious  _faith_ part of all this Primacy superstition.” He could see the way she was grimacing beside him so he threw her a false smile of sympathy. “Oh, my pardon, I didn’t mean offense.”

“You did,” Windblade said flatly.

Starscream waited for a moment, looking at Windblade’s face before growing impatient with her lack of reaction. “I must say, Windblade, as little as I care for your regular disposition, I am  _not_ a fan of you in a completely foul mood.”

“I’m just not in the mood to be played with today, Starscream,” she snapped back. “Or for being your excuse for putting this  _off.”_

He balked and stood straight again. “Me? I have no fear of this conference,” he defended. “I just don’t want the people to become too alarmed over what’s probably  _nothing._ And what’s probably  _definitely_ not the first Hot Spot on Cybertron since the end of the War. That’s just  _asking_ for mechs everywhere to get their hopes up.”

Curious, Windblade looked back at him, head slightly tilted. “You don’t believe  _anything_ the time travelers said? Even after they proved who they were with their spark signatures?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Starscream said with a flippant twist of his wrist. “Didn’t you hear what they said?  _I_ am supposed to be such a good leader I bring us into a new Golden Age. Are you telling me  _you_ believe  _that?”_

She stared at him for a moment before crossing her arms. “I believe that I’ve learned not to underestimate you, Starscream,” she said instead. “And I think you  _want_ to believe at least that much is true because it’ll make up for the part of all of this chaos and turmoil we’ve been through thanks to Error at least  _a little bit_ possibly redeemable.”

“Other than leading our united people through this unspeakable hardship, I have no idea what you’re referring to, Windblade. I’ve been completely uninvolved,” he said smoothly as he finally opened the doors to the Council of Worlds’ chamber where their fellow representatives and the media were ready and waiting.

Leaving Windblade behind, Starscream climbed up to his usual seat at the head of the table, clearing his voice box, and then looked out to the gathered crowd. They stared back at him attentively and with heavy suspicions.

“Cybertronians, one and all, we are looking to the end of our darkest hour as a unified world and preparing to move forward to a new age,” Starscream began, a cocky smile growing as he continued. “A new  _Golden Age_ , you might say. One with us unified as the final hour approaches those terrorists which sought to destroy our faith and unity with one another. But in order for us to all achieve those lofty goals of unification and sanctity, we must first learn from the horrors that came before and see to it that we change our futures.”

As he paused dramatically, Starscream smirked and looked down to Windblade in particular. She had quietly crossed the room, standing by Chromia again, those all-telling optics surprised and curious about the speech.

Suddenly, Starscream knew she really  _hadn’t_ known what to expect from him. A realization which made everything only that much more wonderful.

“What I’m proposing is new legislation to be brought before the Council of Worlds, worked out between us all to more agreeable terms,” Starscream continued. “About the regulation and state sponsored study of mnemosurgery.”

There was a collective gasp across the room, and Starscream crossed his hands on the podium before him. “It is a dark and devious form of invasion of the most personal kind. And it has been used by many sides of many conflicts to disastrous effect. I propose regulation at the highest level, and sponsored study in its reversal and long term effects.”

The tension did not break, if anything it grew thicker. But Starscream had succeeded.

 _He_ was the one who publicly and diplomatically framed the discussions to come.


	22. 5.2: Through Mounting Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been forever, I know, I’m sorry, but we’re so close to the end everyone. And even more than that, we’re very close to me moving across the country so that’s at least part of the reason my updates have been all over the place. Hopefully, though, everything will be settled soon and this story will be closer to it’s fastly approaching end!
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, squireofgeekdom, and TheWatcher for the feedback!

**Part V: The Day the World Caught Fire  
Chapter 5.2: Through Mounting Panic**

With Velocity officially off of the radar of the huge, fiery mech, Hot Rod could focus again on the simpler issues at hand. The ones like, how his unfinished repairs were all but tearing at the seams as he held onto Error’s arm and was slung around by it. He gritted his denta and kept hold, though, because for whatever reason, no matter how much of the flames were being spewed by Error, the armor plating around his arm never heated up, even as Hot Rod clung to it and redirected the directions of the flames.

“Either I’m  _really_ good at my job,” Hot Rod hissed out, pedes far from the ground as Error attempted to throw him off, “Or you’re not actually producing that fire organically!”

“You know nothing!” the mech roared at him.

“I know about fire,” Hot Rod snared back. “And there’s nothing  _holy_ or natural about yours, Error! You’re a fraud, not gifted!”

The strength of Hot Rod’s voice meant that his message carried quite a bit to the area surrounding them. Enough to especially stop many of the other fighting cultists in their tracks. They were looking to their leader warily, waiting for a response.

“The only  _fraudulent_ Prime here is  _you!”_ Error snapped, finally turning off his shooting flames so that he could use his other arm to grab Hot Rod by the shoulders and yank him off.

Unable to help himself, Hot Rod let out a yell of pain as the brittle metal reconstructing his bad arm broke away at the action. It was probably a sign to a smarter bot that they weren’t supposed to be in the amount of trouble that they were in. But for Hot Rod, it was the most alive he had felt since waking to his nightmare. Especially once Error clutched him by both sides and began to crush him inward.

“You are inefficient, you are  _small_ and  _small minded,_ you are a blight to the history of your own creation, and you do not deserve to ever  _entertain_ the idea of being a Primal Representative on this mortal plane!” Error snarled.

Grunting out in discomfort, Hot Rod stopped once Error’s little speech completed and he looked toward the cultist, glaring into the painted hand across his face. “You know, what? Probably… Probably that’s  _all_ true. But you know what’s more true?” he pressed before reaching deep within himself, and letting the fire from his spark burn outward. “Even if I’m a screwup, I’m the  _real deal._ And you’re the cheap imposter. Or else when you flamed out, it’d feel a lot more like  _this!”_

Unleashing the burst of white hot flames from himself, Hot Rod knew he had surprised the hulking monstrosity that was Error, as he was immediately released. as the villain backed away with a loud cry of his own.

Hot Rod, though, honestly didn’t fare much better, immediately falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around himself as he tried to bring the flames down himself, something he had never been successful at before. The temporary metals and joints that replaced much of his damaged areas began to expand and grow malleable under the heat and pressure. “Frag it,” he seethed. “Just once — just once be under control.  _Be under control.”_

“Rodimus!” Drift’s voice called out from nearby.

Despite himself, Hot Rod opened his eyes at the name and turned to look in Drift’s direction. When he saw that the other bot was heading straight for him, he fell back, holding out his arms to keep Drift at arms’ length at least. “No! Drift, stay back! I-I’ll burn you like… Like I burned everyone—“

Obediently, Drift stepped back, but he stood his ground, a confused look growing on his face as he examined Hot Rod from a distance.

It was then that Hot Rod realized, his body was cooling, the metals contracting — his flame was off. It wasn’t a flash in the pan explosion like what he had always experienced before. It was a controlled fire.

And it had finally gone out on command.

“Are you alright?” Drift asked, not missing a beat.

Hot Rod looked down to his hands, inspecting them as if he couldn’t believe for himself that the fire he started was finally out. And he still had fuel to burn, so to speak. He looked up at Drift and took a breath. “Something like that,” he admitted. “You called me Rodimus again.”

“Old habits,” Drift assured him.

“I think I’m okay with it,” he admitted.

Across the valley of newly ignited sparks, however, a shrill cry of joy took grasp of both of their attentions. They looked in time to see a small red-and-black cultist holding up a giant, impressive spark.

“Master Error!” the cultist cried out. “Your spark! It is found! We can safely set the field aflame!”

No sooner had the words left the cultist’s mouth than Nautica landed a solid punch across their jaw, sending the spark flying into the field of fellow sparks all over again. “Monsters! You’re not touching  _any_ of these sparks again!”

“They’re going to destroy  _newly formed Sparklings?”_ Drift asked in disgust. “Just because it was you who ignited the field?”

Hot Rod narrowed his optics and turned just enough to look in Error’s direction. “Just the ones that aren’t  _his_ spark,” he realized out loud. “Which means the best way to keep the Hot Spot alive is to make sure they can’t find the spark, which means getting this fragger the hell out of here and letting the others take care of his crew of brainless minions.”

“I thought that time couldn’t be changed,” Drift answered. “Didn’t everything you do on your time travel escapades lead to history catching up with itself?”

“Maybe it’s not just history this guy wants changed. Or maybe he’s just an idiot. If he kills sparklings does it really matter?” Hot Rod asked. “Drift?”

The speedster looked back at him. “Yes?”

“Do you mind helping me do something overtly dangerous and at least partially self-sacrificing?” Hot Rod asked.

“I feel like the answer to that is to just say,  _like old times,”_ Drift responded with a smirk. “Once honorary Wreckers…”

“I’d say  _Wreck-n-Rule_ but I think Springer would leap out of whatever rock he’s hiding under these days and dent my face even more,” Hot Rod replied.

“That would be impressive if possible,” Drift answered.

“Wow,” Hot Rod replied. “Besides, I have the odd urge to say something else, and something tells me it’s more likely to get this one-note idiot to give us chase.” He then cupped his hands around his mouth and cried out toward the distracted Error. “Hey! Pain in the aft!  _Till All Are One!”_

“That’s the key,” Drift said as Error turned back around. “You’re officially  _Rodimus_ again. How’s it feel?”

With a snarl, Error transformed to his alt-mode, a giant, lumbering tank with treads large enough to cave in someone — most likely  _Hot Rod’s_ — head. And he was sure enough blasting right their way across the landscape.

“It feels like near death and lots of empty posturing,” Hot Rod replied candidly.

“That sounds about right,” Drift replied. “Let’s go!”

Without further hesitation, Hot Rod transformed along with Drift, though he could feel the aches and lack of weight balance, especially in his under carriage after doing so. There was a painful shift of weight to his right side’s wheels, but it wasn’t anything to dwell on.

They had to move fast because Error was determined to take his aggression out on his so-called Rodimus Prime, and Hot Rod —  _Rodimus-not-a-Prime_ — was the closest he was going to get to it.

* * *

First Aid glared into the microscope, scratched at the side of his helm as he tried to concentrate more and more on what everyone else had allowed the panic to pass on. The  _Red Rust_ , the technovirus that threatened their entire species if they didn’t find a way around its rather genius advancement.

The nanites at the source were far from  _unique_ when compared to the samples First Aid had logged on from Delphi, but at the same time their vibrations communicating with one another, and thus increasing the rate of speed with which they ate away at the techno-organic life they infected, was entirely new. It was like a language that First Aid was only on the  _edges_ of cracking the code of.

And with Velocity and Ratchet gone to take care of Rodimus and with the doctors of the capital proving to be less than interested in the disease now that Red Rust was no longer prominently causing chaos around them, First Aid was left with the daunting and nigh impossible task of cracking it all by himself.

 _As usual_ , it would seem.

Recording the interactions of two nanites for ten minutes, First Aid was able to slow down the recording — frame by frame — and write down each vibration and pause as they communicated to each other. He noted when they moved along with vibrating, and he noted when they stopped and began to attack the sample of techno-organic matter First Aid had left for them.

Then he would move to the next sample.

It was  _achingly_ long work, complex beyond anything First Aid could have expected, and yet he felt no closer to solving it than when the theory first came to him. He groaned and rubbed at his optics.

His work was becoming maddening just before the doors to the laboratory slid open and revealed the streamlined frame of a jet who was  _not_ Starscream for once — it was the delegate, Windblade, looking rather shellshocked.

“Um, Delegate Windblade? I’m sorry, we’re working with very volatile samples right now, it’s not safe for non-trained personnel to enter here,” First Aid attempted to explain even as she turned her attention to him and began to cross the room.

“It’s okay. I have a good degree of confidence I’ll be around for quite a while,” she said almost hollowly. “First Aid, thank you for your services to Cybertron. Working on a more advanced cure for the plague will be a great sign for the upcoming Golden Age.”

For a moment, First Aid simply stared at her. When he cycled his optics, however, he finally tilted his helm and looked at her in utter bafflement. “I… don’t really know what any of that means. But I  _do_ think there is more to the Red Rust that was unleashed on Cybertron.”

Windblade grew a tentative frown and put a hand to her chin, looking worried about more than just First Aid’s work. “In what way?” she asked.

“It’s… complicated,” First Aid tried to wriggle his way free of the responsibility of explaining. But then, when he saw the way Windblade looked at him with quite a bit of determination, he bottled up the frustration and pushed away from his microscope. He waved to the device, inviting the delegate from Caminus to look for herself. “When the Red Rust we were exposed to back on Delphi infected the T-Cogs, it was due to a sound bomb that had gone off. One which ignited a frequency which carried these techno-organic cannibalizing nanites. They are the virus which brings the symptoms of the Red Rust.”

“That would be  _these_ nanites?” Windblade pressed.

“No, these are new ones,” First Aid explained, crossing his arms. “They’re nearly identical in design and their ability to multiply and transfer, but they operate differently. They are tactical. They communicate with each other at that same frequency of vibrations that the initial set were only carried by. And by communicating, they much more quickly attack the body they are inhabiting, dividing into groups and multiplying based entirely on where to eat techno-organic matter from the T-Cog out. They move so quickly with this new ability to communicate that the window for us to work in and cure decreases. And also means that if even  _one_ nanite survives, it can go dormant until the threat is over, then grow and divide when reactivated. And  _then_ they can communicate to its new divisions its resistance to the previously administered cure. Meaning the previous ways of killing them will work less or even  _not at all_ anymore.”

Windblade bristled at the announcement and turned to look at First Aid rather wide-eyed and frightful. “That’s… That’s  _horrifying._ But… What would reactivate ones that might already be latent in the population of Cybertron that were infected and survived before?”

“Their T-Cog,” First Aid explained “If it ever hits the exact right frequency and awakens the latent virus, this starts all over again with an even  _more_ difficult bug to kill.”

“As long as the nanites are telling each other to eat the host,” Windblade said lowly.

“Well, that’s  _all_ they seem to communicate about,” First Aid admitted before waving to his notes, which were on their hundredth scroll on his tablet already. “Eat, move, eat.”

“But they communicate through vibrations,” Windblade continued. “Wouldn’t that mean that they could be  _communicated to_ through? Couldn’t someone change their actions or their  _directions_ if they figured it out?”

First Aid looked at her in confusion. “I suppose…  _theoretically._ But why would you be asking?”

“Because I don’t believe Starscream when he says he knows nothing about what Error has been doing, I don’t believe  _his_ reign could lead to a Golden Age of peace, and I don’t believe he’s outlawing mnemosurgery for himself if he can find a covert way to alter the way people think.”

“Well, as long as we’re not edging on heresy in a government building,” First Aid mumbled before the implication really caught up with him. “Wait. You believe this cult is capable of commanding who is and who isn’t affected by this virus. But… that would require  _everyone_ to be affected and for  _everyone_ to be at risk of their transformations  _eventually_ hitting that frequency that would wake their nanites up.”

Windblade looked at First Aid with the same shellshocked expression she had when she entered. “First Aid, you’ve been the only one consistently working on this disease  _and_ had first hand dealings with diagnosing the shadowplay that affected Rodimus. And you may very well be the only doctor on Cybertron capable of saving us all from a techno-organic weaponized disease from the future.”

First Aid cycled his optics, then looked around the lab before falling back on Windblade. “Um. We  _aren’t_ somehow still on the Lost Light are we?” he asked.

Suddenly, the lab’s doors slid open again.

“We’re in a hazard environment!” First Aid shouted, losing his patience with mechs barging into the contamination zone. But he stopped immediately when he saw it was the doctor from Velocitron, Knock Out, dragging a large, bulky blue and copper mech through the door. “Knock Out?”

“I need help!” Knock Out cried out to them. “My Conjunx Endura — my  _Breakdown!_ He’s… I don’t understand how but he’s reinfected!” The doctor released his partner just long enough to turn around and look at them with wild, concerned eyes.  _“The_   _plague has returned!”_

* * *

Megatron stepped down from the boarding ship and took one look over the fields of Nyon before becoming incredibly, undeniably aware that as usual, the Lost Light had stepped into a situation far exceeding its capabilities. Like a joke which got old a millennia ago but kept being told all the same.

“That’s a Hot Spot! This entire field is a  _Hot Spot!”_ Rung uttered in shock as he stepped down beside Megatron. His expression then grew somewhat faint. “And there are mechs setting them  _on fire!”_

“Fragging idiots,” Ratchet added, shooting the first cultist near enough to them that was reigning such destruction on the field.

Further ahead, crew from the Lost Light who had been missing alongside their former captain were battling with obvious exhaustion, but judging by the sheer  _number_ of red and black cultists who were sprawled out or dead around them, they had been more than doing their part.

Without further hesitation, Megatron waved to the rest of the away team and security forces they had brought at Velocity’s request and sent them forward. “Help our crew. Keep as many of the bots alive. Be careful around these sparklings!”

“Megatron! Captain!” Nautica’s familiar voice called out, drawing the old bot’s attention toward her. She skidded to a halt beside him. “Velocity said she got in contact with the ship for help, but I didn’t realize that it was… I mean, won’t you be arrested if…”

“My crew is my responsibility and for now they are in trouble. My place is here,” Megatron said firmly. “If I could lead others to their deaths in a battle for our planet, I am more fit leading a last time in a battle for the souls of this new and strange world.”

The Camien squinted slightly at him. “Even one with Starscream as the leader?”

For a moment, Megatron actually considered that implication, then he shook his head and kept to his morals. “However unfortunately.”

Ultra Magnus exited the passenger ship with lock up cuffs in tow, a suspicious look in his eyes as he entered the scene. “This is complete chaos. None of these fugitives are in any archives I have logging wanted criminals or registrars for prior offenses.”

“The Council of Worlds has opened Cybertron up to many new outlaws,” Megatron reminded him.

Looking back at Megatron, Ultra Magnus seemed genuinely offended. “I am completely updated to all records from all worlds’ databases. Did you believe I was  _not_ screening and cross checking all of our new recruits?”

“I apologize for the offense,” Megatron said.

“What we need apologies for is everyone being off the objective,” Ratchet growled out before glancing toward another skirmish. “Velocity! Where the frag is Drift and that half a screw loose captain of ours?”

Velocity took down the combatant cultist and then looked to them with concern. “They were already gone by the time I got back from contacting the lot of you! They were leading the big one away from the Sparklings so they wouldn’t destroy the field.”

“Why are they determined to commit sparklicide!?” Ultra Magnus demanded. “It is the most horrific of any offenses.”

“They’re time travelers and only one of the sparks belongs to the cult leader so they want to find his and burn the rest,” Nightbeat answered, assisted by two of the security crew to bring in some conscious cultists who Ultra Magnus immediately began to cuff. “In truth it’s a rather fascinating turn of events.”

“Time travel? I have truly come to  _despise_ time travel,” Megatron balked before incidentally meeting optics with Brainstorm. “The offense that time is intended.”

“I have  _no_ idea where they got my technology from in the future. You would think that my increasing intellect would lead to me being  _better_ about keeping my inventions under wraps,” Brainstorm defended himself. “I’ll take this as a lesson.”

“You can’t, we already established that everything in this universe’s timeline is a stable and cemented fact,” Megatron reminded him. “Whatever mistake you  _will_ make you have already made for this mess to happen. Or do we have to again go over the events we all agreed would never be spoken of again?” Everyone glanced around not wanting to deal with the time conundrum they had  _already_ gotten out of the way. Megatron grunted and pinched the bridge between his optics in frustration. “I am too tired for this. Who is responsible for the time traveling this time around? Do we know them beyond that someone grown tomorrow is a sparkling here today? Why did they come here?”

“Uh, apparently it has something to do with Rodimus, Sir,” Nautica answered with some reservation.

“Of course it does. I don’t know why I bothered to ask,” Megatron muttered, looking around. “Which direction did they go in—“

They all grew silent as another ship began to land nearby, one marked with an official Cybertronian seal. Megatron felt immediately apprehensive toward it but remained calm even when the doors opened and revealed Optimus Prime —  _of all the mechs_ — with some others. Some of the badgeless police began to pick up where the Lost Light’s crew were in apprehending surviving cultists, but Optimus and his followers were making a straight line for Ultra Magnus, Megatron, and Ratchet.

“Captain, if you go back on the ship, I will be happy to explain the circumstances of our unannounced arrival,” Ultra Magnus offered.

“I doubt that Prime came all this way for only me,” Megatron answered in turn.

“Do not sell yourself short, Megatron, I would cross  _many_ paths to address issues with you,” Optimus answered darkly before looking around. “Where’s Rodimus?”

“That’s what we’re here for, Optimus,” Ratchet answered.

The Prime’s optics immediately narrowed. “You mean you do not know yet?”

Before they could argue any further, there was a distant explosion, flames shooting high enough in the sky that it could be seen even from where they stood.

“I remember this now,” a strangely familiar voice said from behind Optimus. “See, Windblade, we’re not late at all.”

Megatron turned, leaning around Optimus enough to see the younger bot who was talking for himself, and his eyes widened almost immediately as the other bot’s optics met his own.

They stared at each other. The older bot who still had a youthful look to him, even with more neutral tones outside of the distinctive scar on his faceplate. He looked a little stunned and concerned after catching Megatron’s gaze.

On his end, Megatron felt like pulling his helm apart, scowling. “ _Time travel,”_ he said as though it were a curse.

“Well that saves us  _some_ explanation,” the  _not_ -Rodimus replied candidly.

“Good, we do not have it to waste,” Optimus declared, transforming and immediately heading toward the source of the explosion.

The two red and black painted mechs likewise transformed — one a jet and the  _not_ -Rodimus into Rodimus’ usual altmode. And they followed.

“Was that…” Nautica began.

“The less we know the better,” Megatron decided. “Everyone keep here. Listen to Velocity and Ratchet with regards to managing this Hot Spot. This is no doubt an important moment in our history. I will assist Rodimus and Drift with whatever nonsense they have gotten into.”

Everyone seemed more than ready to follow orders but Megatron was halted by Ratchet quickly grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to turn back toward him.

“If anything happens to any of the three of them — Optimus, Drift,  _or_ Rodimus — I’ll be the first to throw you overboard when Starscream and his deluded secret police come after us,” Ratchet warned.

“I expect nothing less of you, doctor,” Megatron answered.

Then, as quickly as he could, Megatron took off in the direction of the continued fire and explosions. A mark of Rodimus’ handiwork if Megatron had ever seen it.


	23. 5.3: The Saviors of Cybertron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been ridiculously busy preparing for my big move and unfortunately that has led to neglecting updates on many of my projects, particularly this one. And I’m more than pleased to turn some of my attention on the last couple of chapters for this fic that I’ve been working on for over a year now. We’re so close to the end! My goal is to finish the whole fic before I move but either way, I definitely want it finished by Thanksgiving. So here’s hoping!
> 
> Special thanks to @iamabagfullofcats, @mythicbells-fan-3495, squireofgeekdom, Isame, and a lovely guest on ffn for the feedback!

**Part V: The Day the World Caught Fire  
Chapter 5.3: The Saviors of Cybertron**

No one had been more certain of the danger passing than Knock Out himself.

Their species was not particularly well known for being plagued with diseases, let alone an actual plague. The things that he was trained for as a doctor on Velocitron had mostly dealt with injuries from consistent use, or system failures which came due to a combination of personal errors an being negligent of self-care. Disease control was a  _footnote_ in his greater studies.

So when the Red Rust had been taken care of by them the first time around, Knock Out lulled himself into a sureness that it was simply the end. That the Error that time was not their own.

And as such, he had diminished and ignored the concerns of his Conjunx.

Breakdown had been affected by the Red Rust originally, kept alive by Knock Out’s vigilance and connections to the government and the research facility. And Knock Out had been very content to put his own  _and_ Breakdown’s concerns to rest with a flip of his wrist.

Things were  _safe_ again. Breakdown was  _cured._ They didn’t have anything to worry about.

Until Breakdown had been driving with him through the streets of Cybertron, strangely quiet and even slower than his bulk usually caused. Then, when they transformed once more at their destination, there was oil and energon leaking from Breakdown’s every crevice, his metal becoming brittle as the red stains began to mark him in his entirety.

No horror, no  _fear,_ had ever gripped Knock Out nearly as terrible as what he felt in those moments.

And despite his credentials, despite his big talk and insider knowledge, he was reduced to sitting beside his husband, clasping his hand in worry as they sustained him.

Sustained him and postponed any further treatment because there was an outright  _war_ being waged in the laboratory behind them. As if Knock Out wasn’t there with his Conjunx, as if there wasn’t panic already set in that very room.

As if Knock Out wasn’t  _right there._

“Are you trying to tell me that for  _weeks_ now you have been spending Cybertronian money, resources, and  _time_ on absolutely nothing? That even after everything, even after  _all that I’ve given you_ , you are somehow  _still_ not any closer to giving me a solution to this entire blasted mess!?” Starscream raged at First Aid and Windblade.

“He  _just_ talked you through all of his discoveries, Starscream,” the Camien delegate defended fiercely. “Obviously he’s done a  _lot_ of work with that time and if you just explained what he learned to the rest of Cybertron—“

“What I  _heard,_ Windblade, is a lot of theory and nonsense about  _how_ these things were killing Cybertronians! I didn’t hear an  _iota_ of news about how First Aid was going to  _stop them!”_ the supreme leader snarled.

“I can’t,” First Aid began to say.

“ _My point exactly!”_ Starscream screeched.

“ _Yet,”_ First Aid finally asserted himself. “I can’t stop it  _yet_ , Lord Starscream, but knowing is half the battle. By knowing how the organisms operate and how they communicate I’ll be able to find a way to deactivate them  _eventually._ And more importantly, we know how to prevent them from being reactivated in the rest of the population. We just need a period of time where no one uses their T-Cog until I treat each and every one of them.”

“And how do you plan on keeping an entire planet from using their T-Cogs!?” Starscream snapped.

“First Aid can’t.  _I_ can’t,” Windblade answered. “But you can, Starscream. Easily. You can hold a press conference just like you did this morning and explain this to the world, have them hold off until they are treated by First Aid and everyone can be screened and cleared.”

Knock Out cycled his optics off, holding Breakdown’s hand even tighter. He  _hated_ it. He  _hated_ that his Breakdown was patient zero for the next round of the disease.

Where was the information — where was First Aid’s research — before Breakdown’s fall to illness?

“What I’m hearing is that you are asking me to send all of Cybertron straight into a  _population-wide panic,”_ Starscream scoffed. “After weathering disease and terrorism and a war of Combiners, you want to plunge Cybertron into a panic over an illness that has no cure as of yet. Do you realize what kind of hysteria that would cause? Do you realize how terrible of a position that puts me in? Prime and the future time travelers and who  _knows_ who else are fighting some battle that is surely going to cause enough explosions to be noticed by the news if not the citizens themselves, there’s still an embargo on mechs coming or leaving the planet that was  _so close_ to being lifted, and now this morning I said the big  _N_ and  _S_ words on global broadcast. Even if it was outlawing it, there’s a stirring panic over the idea that it  _was_ being used before.”

“It  _was_ being used before!” Windblade snapped.

“Also,  _mneumosurgery_ has a silent  _m,”_ First Aid corrected.

“There won’t be any press conference!” Starscream screeched definitively.

Having heard more than enough, Knock Out stood up fast enough to send his seat flying backward and clattering loudly against the ground. It was more than enough noise to draw the attention of all three mechs who had been ignoring him to that point.

“I don’t give a  _damn_ about the politics of Cybertron or any other games you  _mouthventers_ consider to be terrifying for the public or not!” Knock Out glared at them. “My Conjunx was already affected — betrayed by his own transformation. And even if it was a one-in-a-million frequency from the transformation, the effects are here to see. And in a population of  _millions_ there are more one-in-a-millions that will be coming our way soon. And panic when the public realizes there was knowledge not shared with them will put to shame any concerns brought to them in warning.”

When Knock Out looked to the others he received quite an array of emotions. First Aid was contemplative, a hand held to his chin in silence. Windblade was empathetic, her looks bleeding concern and responsibility. Starscream was utterly defiant, unmoved as it were.

“Delegate Knock Out, I enjoyed your opinions  _far more_ when they were not burdened by emotions,” Starscream finally announced, earning looks of ire from both Windblade and First Aid.

Knock Out snarled. “How dare you—“

“I will not send this world — and the  _other worlds_ — into a certain panic that will cause mass chaos, more deaths, and more destruction of what  _little_ property we all possess!” Starscream snapped at last. “The public  _can’t_ know they’re a T-Cog away from death at any moment because  _I_ can barely handle the information! And I’ve been aware of Error and his refuse since the start of these destructive tantrums!”

“We can’t do  _nothing!_ There  _will_ be deaths!” Windblade argued angrily. “And just like Knock Out said, once bodies start dropping,  _real_ panic and mayhem will hit either way. The public deserves to know—“

“The public  _can’t handle_ everything. That is why they have leaders elected to keep them safe!” Starscream scoffed. “Honestly, have none of you played this game before?”

“This is not a game to me!” Knock Out roared at last.

“What if,” First Aid began thinking out loud.

“Everything is a game! If you’re not  _winning_ you’re  _dying!”_ Starscream cried out in anger.

“This is not a zero-sum game for you to power grab more and more, Starscream!” Windblade said bitterly. “This deserves a summons from the Council of Worlds, and if you won’t start it than Knock Out and I will. And we’ll decide, by committee, how or how not to tell the citizens that their  _very lives_ are at stake.”

Feeling justified, Knock Out stepped closer to Windblade and crossed his arms. “I couldn’t have imagined saying it better myself.”

“The Council does not rule Cybertron,  _I do!”_ Starscream barked.

“ _All_ of our worlds are going to be affected!” Knock Out balked.

“Not yet,” First Aid said, a little louder, enough so to make the others realize he was still involved in the conversation. He looked back at them with determination. “None of us seem to know each other personally all that much, but I’’m going to ask everyone in this room to trust me and work with me. The other worlds aren’t affected yet, anyone who is affected isn’t just on Cybertron but lives within this city, correct? Then there’s potential that we could find a cure — the right code at the right frequency — and have it sent out to deactivate all of the nanites at once. We’d cure everyone without alerting them. But we’d obviously have to do it soon. As in done last cycle soon.”

“Brilliant!” Starscream cried out, clapping his hands together.

“You can do that? Just from what little information you have that you’ve already told us?” Knock Out asked skeptically.

“Yes,” First Aid nodded. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” Windblade said almost too readily, stepping toward First Aid. “Tell us what you need all of us to do then.”

Slowly, the little medic turned his head back toward Starscream. “Um. Well. Believe it or not, we still need to call that press conference.”

Knock Out joined Windblade in looking Starscream’s direction as the Cybertronian leader could  _not_ have looked more displeased.

* * *

As much as the task at hand required his full attention, Optimus found himself growing increasingly concerned with the way that the supposed Rodimus Prime was looking to Megatron almost with a sense of awe. If Ratchet or Megatron himself noticed it, they said nothing, but for Optimus it was an unavoidable sight.

And he could  _not_ understand why, with such stakes and how they were rushing toward certain conflict, he felt so unsettled by the time travelers and their interactions with everyone. It was  _wrong_ and  _disconcerting._

“Prime,” Windblade radioed to him from her jet form as she flew overhead. “I was going to scout ahead and see if I can give you all an advantage on what’s coming up…”

“That would be most advantageous, Windblade,” Optimus replied curtly.

“I  _was_ but… I can see you’re distracted and…”

“We do not have time for petty distractions,” he affirmed, more for himself than for her.

“I can respect that,” the cityspeaker from the future claimed without wavering. “But all the same, I know that our appearance and our coming to you all this way is, at the least, difficult to fully understand. And at worst it is going to cause irreparable harm to some of these relationships. And I don’t want you to feel that we have somehow come to change the course of things.”

“I am not sure I understand what you are trying to tell me here, Windblade,” Optimus said flatly.

“I am only trying to say that if you are worried about the relationships with those you have in your life now, don’t worry about the idea that Prime—  _Rodimus_ and I in any way endanger that. Things are as they should be. And you don’t even have to think of us as the bots you know today if there is anything about us and our appearances you are uncomfortable with. That is not them… yet.”

“What I see is not what the future holds for me but what the present has already presented,” Optimus answered lowly, seeing Rodimus and Megatron starting some sort of repertoire that was so natural even Ratchet didn’t seem particularly concerned by it. “The decisions I have made that have been beneficial for the relationships of others and not for myself and the ones who held me most dear at my most trying of times.”

Windblade did dip in her flight slightly. “Well, the one thing that is beneficial about being in the  _present_ and not from the  _future_ is that you have decisions you can still make and not regrets you can only feel.”

The words were sound advice, but they felt hollow. There was something permanent and determinative in the way that these future Windblade and Rodimus presented themselves. An inevitability. A fight that was only a losing battle, and Optimus already felt before they reached their destination that he was going to be long since tired of fighting those losing battles.

“Your plan of scouting ahead is solid advice, Windlade,” he said, effectively ending the conversation. “You should move ahead with it.”

The jet seemed hesitant, but just as the Windblade Optimus knew in the present, she was quick to act on his word without protest. She zipped ahead of all the road bound Cybertronians and over the debris fields of Nyon.

“Windblade!?” the future Rodimus called out in obvious concern.

“She is going to scout what is ahead of us,” Optimus assured the group. “We may not have the element of surprise, but we will benefit from knowing what we are getting into.”

No sooner had he said the words, Optimus and the rest of the crew were taken by surprise by a blind white light just ahead of them. He leaped forward, transforming and landing heavily on his feet ahead of the rest before racing to Windblade’s side as she sat on the ground, holding her head. Purple smoke pillowed from her shoulders and head.

“Windblade!” Rodimus Prime cried out, racing up to Optimus’ side as the current Prime kneeled beside Windblade.

“There’s some sort of barrier there — I think it’s temporal energy,” Windblade announced, looking back to the others. “It feels the same as the energy that sent Rodimus and myself here.”

“Are you injured?” Optimus asked her seriously.

“I’ll be fine. I just don’t know how we’ll be getting through this, and that worries me,” Windblade answered.

“There  _must_ be a way through,” Megatron said determinedly. He turned his attention toward Rodimus Prime. “What was the way we got through to the other side.”

The future version of Optimus’ friend held up his hands and shook his head. “I have no idea! I don’t remember anything about this at all. I just remember that the three of you showed up and—“

“Just the three of us?” Optimus demanded, rising to stand. “You do not recall seeing yourself at the battle?”

Rodimus Prime squinted and scratched at his chin. “Okay, hold on a second, I have to decipher those tenses.”

“The barrier, whatever it is, is keeping the two of you from doing something you didn’t already do,” Ratchet determined.

Optimus looked at his oldest friend with some surprise. But not nearly as much as Rodimus Prime and Megatron.

“You didn’t go back in time with us, how do you know the rules?” Rodimus Prime asked.

“Because I bothered to pay attention and I’m bothering to use common sense now,” Ratchet declared, pushing past Megatron and Rodimus Prime in order to approach the very wall of energy that was glinting at them after having thrown Windblade back. He stopped only for a moment then pressed forward boldly, phasing right through the energy field.

“Okay. I guess it’s not time to help yet,” Rodimus Prime said, a bit stunned.

“Come on, Megatron,” Optimus ordered, earning a look of ire from his former nemesis.

“A moment, Prime,” Megatron said, looking to the time travelers as Wiindblade got back to her feet with Rodimus’ help. “You know the outcome of this battle. Some things are set in stone.”

“Want us to ruin the ending for you?” Rodimus Prime asked almost jokingly.

“I can assume, given your appearance now,” Megatron said offhandedly. “How  _will_ you be?”

Rodimus’ face dropped slightly but he maintained a level gaze at them both. “I’m going to spend the next few years defining who I am for the rest of my life,” he answered cryptically.

Megatron did not look pleased with the vague answer, but Optimus knew they were already losing precious time.

“The outcome won’t matter if we don’t act now, Megatron, let’s  _go,”_ Optimus said again. Megatron finally seemed ready to listen to him and together they went through the energy field, stepping straight into a battle which Optimus had not quite seen the likes of before.

* * *

“I utterly despise everything about this plan,” Starscream announced with a snarl.

“You agreed to it rather quickly,” Windblade reminded him as she kept in step behind him. There was a hint of amusement in her voice that Starscream  _desperately_ wanted to strangle out of her. But they were on a time table as it was.

“That was before I realized I was going to be on the news  _vamping_ for however long it takes those medical flakes to figure out how to annoy everyone on Cybertron.”

“I wouldn’t think that more time for you to be center stage on the news would be considered such a difficulty for you, Starscream,” Windblade mocked.

Having had more than enough, the supreme leader quickly turned on his heels and punched his fist into the hallway wall right in front of Windblade’s faceplate. It was more than enough to make her stop walking and face him entirely. There wasn’t any fear, though, nor was there even anger. There was just frustration and annoyance mirroring back to him.

“I am risking my  _future_ for a harebrained scheme that, for as much as I can tell, is at least partially the fault of your time traveling counterpart,” Starscream snapped. “Something I could stop from ever happening by making  _certain_ that your spark is snuffed out  _long_ before you become the  _time traveling_ nuisance in my life instead of the  _ordinary_ nuisance in my life. It’s an idea that only becomes more desirable the more you remind me of how much you disrespect me and my judgment.”

“It’s not  _your_ future at risk, it’s  _all_ of our futures at risk,” Windblade reminded him firmly. “What you’re doing is going to determine if there is a future for our entire species — and that isn’t  _just_ whether or not you stop this one plague. You hold that power over all of us each and every day as the leader of Cybertron and the head of the Council of Worlds.” Her frown tightened and her bright blue optics almost grew sharper as she stood in complete confidence. “I don’t like you, Starscream. You make it hard for anyone to even entertain the idea of liking you. And it’s not my place nor my interest to assess which one it is. I don’t agree with you most of the time. And I  _will_ disobey you for my own conscience even more than that. But it is not because I  _disrespect you._ Respect is the only thing I have for you. For your position, for the games you played in order to get to it practically on your own.”

Starscream searched Windblade’s features for any sign that she was speaking anything less than the truth, but it was an unnecessary practice. He could see rather clearly already that she was  _precisely_ as truthful as she had ever been.

A quality  _he_ respected no matter how little he could ever stomach or understand it himself.

“Very well,” Starscream said, letting his arm drop back to his side. “That’s all I can ask of you.”

“It’s more than what you can ask of me,” Windblade argued flatly. “But we’re going to save the future today, Starscream. And I am going to be in your debt for it for seemingly a very,  _very_ long time. So I hope you can, just this once, be truthful with me.”

He looked at her carefully and tilted his head. “About what?”

“How much did you know before the rest of us?” she asked lowly, as if aware that whatever direction the conversation took, it was best left between the two of them. “I  _know_ that you’ve known more since the beginning. I know that Error and you must have been in contact for you to have made some of the maneuvers you have since his arrival. How  _much_ did you know? How  _much_ damage were you willing to see and to what end?”

Starscream looked back at her dully. “Is that the most you wish to ask? I expected better of you, Cityspeaker,” he said almost sarcastically.

She wasn’t amused. “ _Starscream—“_

“Before  _everything,_ when the Lost Light was first approaching with Megatron at its helm, I had contact with Error,” Starscream at last revealed. “He got my attention and offered the opportunity that arcane law and Optimus Prime’s failed judgment did not afford me — the chance for justice to be served and for the planet to be protected from the very mech responsible for bringing it to its knees. Bringing  _me_ to  _my_ knees.”

Windblade seemed genuinely surprised by the candid response. “You were the  _first_ to make contact with Error? Just before the entire planet became hostage to the Red Rust?”

“Yes, I know, my suspicions should have been higher and what not. He spoke cryptically enough that I heard what I wanted to so far as his motivations were concerned,” Starscream answered flippantly. “Now if you’re satisfied then we should be…” He halted, optics concentrating on his counterpart’s suspiciously. “Why are you emphasizing that I was  _first?_ That only means I had no way of knowing his true intentions.”

“It… does,” Windblade said hesitantly.

His internal alarm was basically screeching at him, begging him to leave without digging further into Windblade’s sudden turn toward strangeness. He, like she had said before seemingly stalling her processor, was intent on keeping their species from being held hostage by a disease they weren’t even aware that they still had.

“Very well, I will be taking this one on my own then,” he huffed in irritation before turning back and completing his trek down the hallway.

He was in the press room within seconds, his mind still mulling over what he and Windblade had been discussing before, despite his best intentions otherwise.

Why her accusing tone and and words continued to needle him even as he took to the stand before the news cameras and reporters was almost beyond him for a moment. Even as he worked quickly to bury those things deep in his mind, he found them annoyingly conscious still. There, pressing him for the grander realization which Windblade apparently already had.

“Lord Starscream! What is the reason for this briefing? Do you have news on the hunt for the terrorists?” one of the reporters asked, holding up their thumb microphone too close to Starscream’s personal space.

He was forcing an easy smile, some kind of small comfort to his people, knowing that if everything was to go according to plan, First Aid and Knock Out would be invading the airwaves with the siren-like blast to take out all of the nanites from the last to the first when—

Starscream’s stalled, his mouth agape.

“Me,” he realized out loud. “I… was patient zero for the plague.”

No sooner had the words left his slacked jaw than the room, and probably all of civilized Cybertron, exploded into a fury of noise all at once.

The moment he realized what he had just done, Starscream glanced back toward the door and saw Windblade looking at him in complete astonishment. She shrugged her arms at him and tilted his head. Whatever she was trying to get across, he couldn’t really process it over the sounds of reporters and his own spark attempting to pulse out of his chest.

Realizing things were turning quickly, Starscream thought quickly and held up his servos, forcing an easy smile. “Please, everyone calm, there will plenty of time for questions once I have fully completed my statement. I’m certain that you all will want to have all of it, which will require you paying attention rather than overtaking me.”

Slowly, everyone died down, at least enough that Starscream felt he had control of the room yet again. “Cybertron, citizens beyond the stars — in the weeks that unfolded after the initial disease that ravished our species, endangering our very future, it seemed, we began to turn suspicious gazes on our brothers and sisters. We wanted sources and blame even when there were color coded villains set before us. It was an excuse for lines that we had always had drawn to be retraced once more, and it was a cause of pain across our lands.” He paused, a bit for drama, then continued, his audience completely raptured. “I, as your  _chosen leader,_ failed to live up to the call of just who the people could blame. It is a  _shame_ that I still wear now as much as paint.”

Windblade crossed her arms, unimpressed with the  _white lies_ , but everyone else was lapping it up like high grade energon.

“So, in these dark hours, I will tell you what we should always turn toward when it comes to blame,” he pointed at his own chest plate. “I am your leader. I am the first to take responsibility for this disease beyond the cultists and terrorists who we are hunting down for the name of justice as we speak. But no worries, I do not take this cross to bear simply for guilt, but as a call to a new focus for my leadership of our shared and collective people! I, and  _Delegate Windblade_ , along with the rest of the Council of Worlds will begin official plans for cross-integration of our worlds and people, to see to it that we see each other as  _One_ rather than simply  _neighbors.”_

She was surprised by the callout, but the moment that reporters and cameras made their way to Windblade, she offered a forced smile and a small wave.

“Now, those questions—“ Starscream began to say just before a static filled the air and microphones all around the room began to ring with a screeching, horrible noise. It was enough to make Starscream duck and shutter before holding on to the sides of his head. He calmly walked off stage while the news crews and guards tried to figure out what was going on.

Windblade was waiting on him.

“About damn time,” Starscream huffed as they left through the hallway together.

“You might have had to resort to volunteering us for cleaning the city dump if you’d been up there much longer,” Windblade huffed, holding the sides of her own head. “But… how much of that did you actually mean, Starscream?”

“It doesn’t matter, Windblade,” he assured her, a swarm smirk on his face. “The only thing the history books will note is that this was the defining day where  _Lord Starscream_ began our new Golden Age.”

Still, she did not seem impressed, but Starscream found it hard to force himself to feel any dampening on his mood. He had a peek at the acclaim that was to come his way.


	24. 5.4: The Emperor Wears No Robes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so, to say the least a few things have happened since last I updated. Before I could finish this monster of a chapter I had a move halfway across the country, a lot of holidays, new jobs, a new year, and now a full time student and teaching position at a university happen. So. Quite a bit, you could say. And while I’m really sorry to have made you all wait so long, I feel so happy to be wrapping up this story. We only have one chapter left after this and I hope the journey has been as rewarding for everyone else as it has been for me, really and truly <3 So thank you all so much for your patience, your kindness, and your attention. I cannot thank you all enough. 
> 
> Special thanks to squireofgeekdom, Isame, and brokeneisenglas for the feedback!

Being experienced in war, Drift didn’t have much reaction to the resounding  _crack_ that happened when his blades cut through armor and protoform alike. There was a sad normalcy to it, and beyond even that there was the fuel pumping horror of being out of step with his  _real_ concerns well past the mounting acolytes in their garish red and black paints.

Far ahead of him was the true battle — the one between Error and Rodimus.

Rodimus who was still half the mech he used to be in the sum of his parts. Physically.

Spiritually, well, as much as others had attempted to warn Drift off of reading EMF fields and taking aura as doctrine, he found that it  _could_ tell him much about the mechs he knew most. And he knew that Rodimus’ spark radiated with a fierceness and energy the likes of which Drift had not seen in what felt like a vorn.

It was Rodimus, but it was Rodimus like hadn’t been seen since the launch of the Lost Light itself.

Still, a mech who was hardly standing once before and a beast of a Cybertronian towering over him in weight and height was predictably a blow out. The strikes Error threw hit more than they missed and Rodimus’ supposedly superior speed seemed to be fairly chipped away at each time they clashed and moved the battle further out from the field.

It was difficult to watch, but Drift found that it was even  _more_ difficult to keep up with after the hordes of brainwashed cultists continued to throw themselves in his way. The  _crack_ sounded again and Drift progressed a little further, leaving messes of bots aside.

And it was suddenly then, with Rodimus’ winded chatter fresh in the air, that Drift began to realize what was actually happening. They were pushing forward, away from the new Hot Spot, away from the masses that obviously would give their sparks in service to the madbot. Rodimus wasn’t simply taking hits like Drift had been aghast about.

Rodimus was leading Error. And it was  _working_. At the cost of what was left of Rodimus’ own body.

Suddenly, the push for Drift to close in was felt even stronger. Without thinking twice, he took an easily blocked hit, like Rodimus before him, and instead of striking, transformed into his altmode, taking off with a screech straight toward the battle he was destined for.

“Admit it, Never-Prime,” Error was sneering in undeserved bravado. “Admit that you feel the righteous call, the sins burning within you. Showing you to be undeserving of the call of the Matrix.  _Admit_ that my savagery upon you now feels like the just punishment you  _deserve_ for the horrors you have inflicted.”

“You mean all the screwed up things in my head thanks to you!?” Rodimus gritted back, transforming into botmode in a particularly confident and smooth transition before firing lasers straight at Error. “Yeah, I’m feeling progressively  _less_ like scrap over those since I got reintroduced to your stupid face!”

Hearing that, Drift allowed himself a small, meaningless sense of comfort. Because it was  _exactly_ what needed to happen for Rodimus. Half physically recovered still, yes. And getting worse by the second in the current fight. But spiritually, to his spark, Rodimus for the first time since the incident felt unbelievably, remarkably  _healed._ And that was a victory in and of itself.

Until the laser blasts to Error’s face and chest plate landed, actually pot marking the latter. And in an outrage at the very indecency of the act, Error lunged forward, grabbed Rodimus by the wrists, and ratcheted him up into the air by them with a crushing force applied to the gun modifications. Rodimus let out a howl of surprise and kicked off of Error to no avail.

“You  _humiliate_ yourself and  _demean_ the suffering your inadequacy has wrought, Never-Prime,” Error snarled into Rodimus’ face viciously. “My shadowplay, my  _simple tinkers_  with your inconsequential and rotted mind, was not a plantation of memories. That takes sessions, ages, time that was not had in that dark cavern where your soul burned along with your body and face with a holy flame. All I did, all I was allowed time to do to you, Rodimus, was to bring what was buried back to its surface. The countless millions dead at your hands, the city leveled, the friends lost to your naivety, all of the things which were your fault and more —  _including_ the horrors of that cave — were yours. They were always  _yours._ All I offered,” Error released one of Rodimus’ arms to coil his hand, unleashing short but significant spikes from the tips of his digits, “was to bring them back to the surface. Where they  _belong._ Where they can be  _worn_ like the tainted scar of your face—“

Having closed in enough, Drift launched himself into the air, transforming to botmode with his sword drawn. “Rodimus!” he shouted as his sword swiped downward in its arc, severing the freed hand from Error’s arm.

In a moment of pained roaring, Error slung Rodimus at Drift, reeling back with his damaged arm flinging into the air. Energon arched at the motion, sputtering from the absent hand. But, another more treated liquid fuel also spewed into the air, a paler color than the energon with a more noxious smell to it as it pumped out from a cable which had flown loose at the severing.

Drift tried to take in as much of the scene as he could, needing as many clues to their next set of actions as possible, but it became demonstrably harder as Rodimus hit hard into him and sent them both to the dusty Nyon grounds.

They both grunted and rolled to their sides after it happened, Drift quickly putting his feet beneath him and reaffirming his grip on his sword.

“You are a liar and a monster, driven mad by a religious fervor beyond any recognition of mine,” Drift seethed at Error. “And your condemnations and hatred are rendered  _useless_ to us as a result. We know you are all tricks, Error. You’ve more than proved it now.”

“Tricks?  _Lying!?”_ Error laughed roarously. He gained his composure, raising his remaining hand up to his severed limb and igniting a flame from his palm which soldered the spewing cables. “You can claim that even as your precious Rodimus is frozen in realization of my truth?”

Drift was ready to snap back, but he glanced to his side where Rodimus was. Surprisingly, Rodimus was still on his elbows, looking forward rather than getting up.

A pang of hurt went through Drift and he believed, for an instant, that he had lost Rodimus to that dark void of introspection once more and that the captain was looking at Error. But the more Drift examined, the more that didn’t seem to be the case after all.

Rodimus stared, silently and determinedly at the severed hand before him, laying on the ground unclaimed. He was examining the spikes on its fingers, the mysterious tubing at its wrist. The make of it entirely.

And then he looked back to Error.

A  _fire_ was lit in his optics.

“You keep telling me I’m fake, that I’m death to those around me,” Rodimus hissed, pushing up finally. “Fine. I won’t fight it. I’ve got some demons even bigger than  _your_ tank aft, but because of you or not now, Error, I’m set on facing them.” His optics shined an unnaturally bright hue as he glared directly into Error’s face. “And  _you’re_ just a fake, too!”

Those words were boastful and tinging on seething, but they seemed to fuel Rodimus in ways his energon couldn’t. He wasn’t backing down, no matter how dumbly the action could have been perceived, again. And as Error cocked back for another attack, Drift was more than happy to be the first to move.

He sliced again but not for the flaming hand. It was instead for the cables protruding with the kibble on Error’s back.

And in doing so, he caused Error to let out a snarl of pain, the non-energon fuel spewing from them again and the flame from Error’s remaining hand dying out almost immediately.

A copycat outlier. A secret shadowplayer. A true  _fake_ Prime.

Drift had never been more ready to help take someone down.

But as the slice of Drift’s sword became more apparent, a weakened backside revealing a direct slice through the bulking Error’s chases, both Drift and Rodimus were frozen in shock and despair to see a familiar glint of green, a bright and shining light which was showing from deep within Error’s spark chamber.

“A phase sixer,” Drift managed to say just before the wrathful tyrant whipped around and clocked him right across his helm.

* * *

In truth, they were going in blind.

As far as a tactician went, Megatron had managed to not only prolong an uprising he was supposedly doomed to lose in its immediacy, but had managed for thousands of years to  _almost win_ across several planets and star systems alike. He was deadly with his cool and capable calculations like few others across any time or space could have been. But managed it all. And not only did he manage it, he managed it  _ruthlessly._ To the point that ages and ages of judgment awaited him at the hands of supposed glorious knights.

But it was always an assumed error — and a fatal one at that — to go in completely blind to any situation.

And the mysterious “future” bots who conveniently could no longer follow them through, were all but serving them up for slaughter.

Still working on preservation instinct ruthlessly beat into him in the mines and later in the War, Megatron allowed himself to fall back however slightly. Prime, if he noticed at all, kept ahead with a one-minded speed. But Ratchet took notice, for certain.

The doctor, after all, had a habit of watching  _and_ threatening Megatron for all that he was worth. Which… was fair and somewhat earned, the former Decepticon was forced to admit.

That initial instinct toward preservation, however, seemed to disrupt Megatron’s spark the moment he looked ahead and was no longer blinded by the unknown. Instead, he was faced with failure at his responsibility. The responsibility he still very much felt toward his crew.

Drift and Rodimus were not doing  _unwell_  in their combat considering the circumstances, but the bulking mech they had come to know as Error was rampaging in a way which chilled Megatron’s innermost energon — it reminded him of Tarn and of Overlord. Of an unmatched strength which  _knew_ of its future victory. And it reminded him of a seething hatred for the hand which had guided it.

Once, with Tarn and with Overlord, Megatron had been on the receiving end. But with Error, there was a clear line of sight, and it was for Megatron’s co-captain.

After getting a good hit in on Error, Drift was hit with a flaming fist at a force which sent the light footed Cybertronian hurling into the ground at a cracking speed, causing metal to go flying from Drift’s armor and kibble as he skidded away from Error and Rodimus.

The attack was brutal, but the largest damage it caused was to Optimus, Ratchet, and Megatron’s advancing charge, as both Rodimus and Error followed through after Drift and locked optics with the upcoming party.

A renewed energy seemed to surge through Rodimus as he got up, cradling his left, puny replacement arm all wire and sinew, and looked at his would-be rescuers.

Though, Megatron, as usual, was incapable of predicting what came out of his co-captain’s mouth.

“What the  _frag_ is wrong with you!? Get the hell out of here!!! Don’t bring the Matrix around this  _maniac!”_ Rodimus all but screamed at them.

“We’ll leave when we’ve finished putting an end to this terrorizing,” Optimus said, transforming and landing only a yard away from the two, his gun arm readied. “Back away from them, Error, and surrender. It’s over.”

The optics of the attacker gleamed sharply toward Optimus, a smile cracking on his red painted face. “You are right,” Error said just before using his remaining large hand to grab the wounded Rodimus by the faceplate and drag him to his side as he turned to face Optimus. “Now that the Matrix is all but within my grasp, and the  _deceiver’s_ final blow almost dealt, truly, it is over. Just as Primus has intended for us all.”

Glaring, Megatron quickened his approach and hastily stepped in league with Optimus. As with his current code, he did not carry a weapon, but his appearance was apparently more than enough to grab Error’s attention.

“It has been millennia,” Megatron sneered, “and  _still_ I am very exhausted with the constant talk of this hangover from an irrelevant age.”

In the periphery of his vision, Megatron could see that Ratchet had gotten to Drift and was pulling him back and out of the midst of the upcoming conflict.

That was at least one matter taken care of.

“We should be working together, Megatron, our invigorating visions for the future are not so incompatible,” Error offered, ignoring how Rodimus was struggling in his grasp. “We both are more than happy to watch the old worlds burn.”

“It isn’t an option, Error,” Optimus declared for them both. “Put. Him.  _Down.”_

“The only way that these negotiations are going anywhere is if we see Rodimus released, Error,” Megatron added stiffly.

“These aren’t negotiations,” Error laughed. “Are they, Proclaimed Prime?”

“There has been enough energon shed over trinkets,” Megatron urged.

“Put Rodimus down,” Prime repeated, more testily.

“I don’t believe I shall,” Error grinned at them, a madman lost within his own vision. “As I said, for a better future, for a  _truer_ future, I need to see the fires of Primus  _cleanse_ all that is around us. Beginning with the  _fake Prime_ who overlooked potential and worthiness of me, his most studious and most prepared acolyte, his true successor, the  _real_ Prime—“

When the flash of fire sparked from Error’s hand, Megatron felt his spark stop. He wasn’t certain what Rodimus’ technical condition was anymore, but he certainly could not withstand his brain module being crushed or blasted at such a close distance. They had failed — Prime’s bravado and force, and Megatron’s supposed great words.

But it was not Rodimus who released a pained yell from the flash of fire, but Error who backed off a few steps and left Rodimus, fire pulsing out from around his shoulders and head, to slide to his knees upon release.

“I just remembered,” Rodimus announced with a huff of exhaust from his intake as the flames died down. “You’re not the one who burned me. I burned myself.  _You_ can’t. Drift was right. There’s no  _judging fire_ from you.”

The words meant little to Megatron at the time, which made it somewhat relieving when Optimus interrupted the exchange by barreling forward and landing a monstrous, head turning punch right into Error’s face.

Even Megatron’s pacificity felt something remotely positive toward the feat.

At least, he did until Error launched back, fist on fire, landing a crushing blow directly to Optimus’ chest. It sent him flying back onto his shoulders and against the corroded grounds of Nyon, scraping and sparking along the way. But the true damage had been to Optimus’ dented in chest plate, where even the glass had been heated enough to flame.

“I will  _not_ fail, I will  _not_ allow my fate to be some predetermined failure! I have  _made my own greatness_ and have sought to rewrite the world into the image that Primus himself has commanded!” Error roared, his optics wide and sparking with rage. He was completely lost within himself. “I cannot fail when my goal is to  _fix_ what has been wrong.”

Having heard more than enough and seeing even Optimus would need some assistance, Megatron walked forward with his optics set and a tight frown on his face.

The movement was more than enough to capture the raging bot’s attention. “I have read the histories, I have read your treatises, Megatron!” he called toward the former Decepticon. “Surely you understand a broken system—“

“Systems are not broken on the basis of being preordained or not, they are broken for seeing utility,” Megatron answered, stopping at Optimus’ side and offering a hand up, “where  _character_ should be valued.” He then glared in Error’s directions. “And your so-called histories must be greatly edited if you do not realize that my opinions have always been rather overt about how religious zeal is but a perversion in discourse to excuse viewing utility over personal character.”

Optimus grabbed onto Megatron’s hand and, with Megatron as leverage, pulled himself back to his pedes. “Thank you… old friend,” Optimus said lowly before turning his piercing gaze to Error. “I suppose you would like to take first strike—“

“Actually, Optimus, if you were listening, you would know that my strikes have already landed,” Megatron answered confidently.

“In that case…” Optimus said before pivoting forward, fist raised.

* * *

“Of all the scrap-for-brains ideas!”

Ratchet knew there was an angry cadence to his voice, but he could have cared less who heard it. Especially after he reached Drift’s side and let the heavy hitters take care of business with the conniving terrorist sitting at the center of all of their current problems.

“It has been a long adventure, you will have to be more specific, Ratchet,” Drift uttered, still clutching to his damaged armor even as the medic worked to pry his hands away for assessment.

“All of it,” Ratchet replied, not even flinching at the noises around them — of battle, of the unknown, of pompous posturing. None of it was unusual or unexpected for him at that point. He’d heard and seen it all before. “Where’s most of the damage at, Drift, and don’t give me anything about how you can fix it with just some meditation and a few prayers to Primus. I’m not asking either, I’m  _telling._ So out with it.”

Drift tilted his helm back enough to look at Ratchet with a squint and pursed his lips. “There’s no need to be aggressively nonreligious at the moment, Ratchet—“

“When I’m around you it can’t be stopped,” Ratchet scoffed.

“Regardless, that’s not why I’m going to refuse help,” Drift continued, pulling away from Ratchet’s grip.

The doctor almost knowingly gripped onto Drift and squeezed tight to remind him that they were not going anywhere. “Frag it, Drift—“

“You can help me  _after_ you take care of Rodimus,” Drift said decisively. “He’s worse off than I am and is the target of whatever insane machinations are driving Error, not me. Until I get back on my feet and into the brawl—“

“Which is  _not happening_ , frag’s sake, Drift,” Ratchet growled out.

“—Error isn’t going to have any interest me,” Drift continued unimpeded. “And that’s just how it’s going to be, Ratchet. And you know it’s the right order of things, so just stop being stubborn and  _do_ it.”

Ratchet’s voice box gave an audible click as he sputtered for the right retort. He then raised his arms up in aggravation. “ _You_ are calling  _me_ stubborn!? While refusing medical care?”

An almost affectionate smirk came to his old friend’s face. “I am.”

“Damn it,” Ratchet growled, getting back to his feet. “Fine. But you listen to me, if I see you so much as  _crawl_ toward the battle, I’m going to shoot off your kneecaps to keep you in place until I’m ready to kill you with my own hands. Got it?”

Infuriatingly, Drift nodded almost sagely to the threat and sent Ratchet into another sputtering, anger filled rage as he turned his attention toward the other damaged mech in the area.

Things seemed to be wrapping up, Optimus was landing a solid hit on the bulky mess the self-proclaimed error they had been dealing with, and not far from him and Megatron was the mech in question. Rodimus was on his knees, smoldering with flame in a way that Ratchet hadn’t really seen since the Necrobot’s planet. But he also seemed to be mostly gassed out by that point.

Which was fine by Ratchet. It was less arguing that he would have to deal with since Rodimus was about as whiny — in or out of his slump — as Drift was stubborn. Except for the fact that Ratchet had dealt with Rodimus’ lack of self-preservation enough by that point to know that he burned up  _fuel_ when he was on like that, and him allowing his fuel usage to go on even for the most climactic of fires was dangerous and stupid even for him.

“What the Pit has gotten into the two of you,” Ratchet growled out as he raced to Rodimus. “Are you and Drift  _trying_ to fry circuits today? Namely  _mine?”_

“I’m making a stand,” Rodimus answered petulantly. Despite being in some of the worst shape externally that Ratchet had seen since they got his spark fully online again, Rodimus’ voice was as strong as it had ever been. He was determined.

Even if it was determinedly  _stupid_ in Ratchet’s book.

“You’re not standing, you’re on your knees, now knock off whatever it is you’re doing before you burn up your energon,” Ratchet snapped.

“Let him burn,” Error roared, pushing up once again from the ground, apparently knowing how to stay down even less than Rodimus. He had a hollow, angry glow to his optics. Wild and monstrous. “In fact, if it is the only change I am capable of making, I will even help—“

Error held up his arms, as if to aim his hands toward Rodimus and Ratchet. There was a strained, clicking sound but nothing happened. Nothing visible, but Ratchet caught a whiff of ozone and could hear the failed fizzle of a dying spark of flame.

Looking over Error’s bulk, looking at the cables and tubes weaved in and out of the massive armor that covered his body, Ratchet didn’t need much more to figure out what exactly was going on.

“Your augmentation’s not going to work, those enhancements are put together like scrap, and the external fuel you were using to light those fires is cut off or stopped up,” Ratchet informed the vile Cybertronian. “Sorry to tell you, but you’ve got no  _holy fires_ you can start up any time soon.”

“Surrender,” Optimus ordered grimly to the struggling form of Error.

“I won’t stop until I prove that Primus’ light will purify and destroy unworthy,” Error spat hysterically.

“Good to know,” Rodimus growled.

Somehow, against basic physics itself, Rodimus propelled himself from his knees to his feet, and with that same momentum dove toward Error’s bent form with one hand — his right hand — outstretched. The smoldering smoke and red heat of Rodimus’ self-produced fire had been concentrating without Ratchet’s notice, concentrating onto the right limb which before Rodimus had allowed to lay lifeless and limp at his side. Full of fire and fury, Rodimus grabbed onto Error’s face and immediately elicited a searing heat as metal melted to the touch and steam hissed out from Error’s optics.

“Rodimus!” Megatron sounded genuinely shocked.

“I just remembered what you taught me I could do,” Rodimus hissed at Error. “Hope it was worth it.”

When Rodimus released Error, the mech fell back onto the burnt grounds of Nyon, leaving Rodimus with a weak standing over him. Hissing flames and smoke were coming out from his hand still but Rodimus seemed intent on seeing his mark on Error.

A hand was burned into the monster’s faceplate, equal in size but opposite in direction to Rodimus’ own. And, all at once, the screaming and torture of the recordings made all too much sense even in ways it hadn’t before.

“It was me,” Rodimus announced emotionlessly, not looking back at the others. “On Eukaris. I… They did something. Unlocked it in me. A fire… and I… I burned.”

Ratchet stared at Rodimus’ back as the silence fell over the three mechs who could best be called Rodimus’ mentors.

“We know,” Ratchet answered.

“You do?” Rodimus half laughed. “That’s… a relief…”

Rodimus was already toppling forward for a harsh landing before Ratchet could start moving to stop it from happening. But he didn’t have to move too far. Another set of hands already were reaching and almost gently catching the flamed out bot.

Optimus looked as stoic as ever, but being one of his oldest and longest held friends Ratchet could see through much of it. And to Ratchet there was a tenderness in the soft glow of Optimus’ optics and a pride that made the warrior’s mech’s shoulders stiffen back and chest hold broad despite damages.

“Easy, Rodimus,” Optimus said softly. “We have you.”

“And we have what we need.”

The voice was so unexpected, Ratchet almost did a double take. He had completely forgotten that the time traveling nonsense had been involved at all, or that they had come with two additional mechs who held back at the last minute.

A pervasive annoyance came across Ratchet’s system. But beside him, Drift was left gawking.

The contrast was even more stark when the supposed Rodimus  _Prime_ was standing so near to their Rodimus himself. He had several advancements and improvements to his frame, a tighter look overall, but he was taller and constructed with a firmer chest plate, one large enough to hold something of grand importance to a bunch of non-thinkers by Ratchet’s standards. But most stark were the colors — that black and red paint job they had all come to instinctively grow wary of due to the cultists, and most of all the painted imprint on his face. A single hand, sprawled across his silver faceplate in a deep red.

Not too far from the future Prime was the future Cityspeaker as well, quickly using an energy blade to swipe through additional adornments on Error which were likely usable as weapons, then pulling out a pair of power dampeners and handcuffs.

“Well, Error, you’re arrested. Again. For me. Not for you, I guess. But again, for me,” Rodimus Prime professed, hands on his hips.

“Don’t antagonize the time traveling assassin, Prime,” Windblade hissed in his direction.

“Sorry, I’ve just been looking forward to this for a super long time. Especially now that we know who he is,” Rodimus Prime answered. And though the voice was familiar and light, as if not taking the situation very seriously, Ratchet knew that everyone standing there at the moment could see the twinge of  _something_ else on Rodimus Prime. He was not nearly as stoic or good at hiding his emotions as his apparent predecessor.

“I suppose you won’t be telling us who that someone is then,” Megatron said, sounding highly displeased.

“Nope,” Rodimus Prime said.

Ratchet felt himself almost blow a gasket.

“That’s absolute  _scrap!_ We deserve to know what we’ve been dealing with, whose fault it is that so many lives have been lost!” Ratchet growled at them.

Windblade looked taken aback, but Rodimus looked positively  _nostalgic._

“I’ve missed being yelled at by you so much, Ratchet,” Rodimus Prime sighed fondly.

“Come over here and I’ll give you a way to remember it better,” Ratchet warned, holding up his tool arm. “You can’t just poof in here and poof out, the world deserves to know who to blame for the literal  _terror_ they have been living under. And we deserve a chance to prevent it.”

“No one deserves that chance, you can’t  _prevent_ the future, you can just live with it,” Windblade reasoned.

“Says who?” Optimus said lowly. There was a certain, noncommittal tenor to his voice that seemed to be working against them.

“In our time? The law,” Rodimus Prime answered. He glanced toward Megatron. “The ones crafted in legislation by you.”

“Me?” Megatron asked, baffled. “How can that be? I have never written legislation before, and we are on the way to Cyberutopia specifically so I can be tried for my crimes—“

“Which is what we need to do with Error,” Ratchet said pointedly. “We need the responsible party!”

Rodimus Prime and the future Windblade glanced at each other, their looks cryptic and mysterious but clearly conveying ages of information that was beyond anyone else. They turned back to the rest at the same time.

“Then look no further than who is in  _your_ Prime’s hands,” Rodimus Prime said almost sagely. “Against his will and  _for_ his own will he has slain hundreds. Maybe thousands. Perhaps it was under command, or by Primus’ will, or due to interfering Shadowplay, or maybe just because he  _did._ But you all know what happened on Eukaris, that Rodimus using a divine gift, an Outlier ability, blew up himself and everyone in a cave with him.”

“He was  _made_ to,” Optimus defended.

“But it was him. And if he’s not punished, if he’s not banished, if he’s allowed to live his life, he’ll prosper and heal and eventually lead,” Rodimus Prime continued. “And he’ll continue to be mistaken as much as he’s right. And when he’s in charge of leading young, impressionable bots who hold the future’s future in their own hands, he will make a mistake. He’ll make a  _grave error_ in judgment, and his greatest student will grow mad with power and religious fervor, deciding for himself that his horrendously flawed master never deserved the title he wears to begin with.” He let out a long huff from his intake, closing his optics in thought for a moment. Slowly, his gaze returned to the others. “So. You can punish me — the me of now — for what was not in his control, and maybe even the things that were, or you could punish him preemptively for the things that he  _will_ do and stop the mistakes he  _will_ make. And when I tell you the name of the young spark who would become that biggest of all mistakes, you can preemptively punish  _him_ first before his life has even begun, too.” He nodded to Windblade and then back to himself. “For us, though, that is unethical. And unlawful.”

There was a pregnant pause between them all.

“There are  _many_ scenarios that come about from time travel that would require laws,” Megatron said lowly.

“Yeah, if I were you, Megs, i’d get on them now while you have free time,” Rodimus Prime attempted to say lightly. But the burden of the moment was still far too great, too loud and stifling.

“The first Hot Spot on Cybertron in ages,” Ratchet marveled, looking back across the stretches of Nyon. “And you’re telling us that one of those new lives is going to become the biggest piece of scrap history can throw at us?”

“Well, it’s not history for you yet,” Windblade offered. “But we have to leave with Error. That, unfortunately, is nonnegotiable.”

“And what the Pit are we supposed to do with all of this?” Ratchet demanded angrily.

“We will have to decide that, won’t we?” Optimus questioned, having pulled the unconscious Rodimus fully into his arms. “Make right choices. Make mistakes.”

A small smile, nothing like Rodimus’ usual broad showy grins, but small and true, showed up on the future Prime’s faceplate. “Yeah. Just like you taught me.”

Ratchet, though, wasn’t having it. “We can do  _more._ I don’t believe in predetermination,” he snapped.

“Good, I hope you  _do_ do more,” Rodimus Prime said truthfully. “The world could always serve to be better.

Windblade, standing between Rodimus Prime and the captured Error, pulled out a suitcase from her subspace.

“Why suitcases?” Optimus asked.

“That’s a Brainstorm question, sorry, can’t help you there,” Rodimus Prime shrugged just before Windblade finished opening it and a puff of purple smoke encapsulated them.

And then, just like that, the time travelers were gone, and in their wake was every bit of carnage and disappointment that their visits had brought.

“Frag it,” Ratchet growled to himself, squeezing his optics shut and pinching the bridge between them. He was going to need to hit Swerve’s after it was all said and done.


	25. 5.5 Know Not What We May Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was an incredibly long journey, believe me it was long on my end as well, but I finally feel ready to bring us all to a satisfying end. At least I hope it feels satisfying for everyone. I fretted over this chapter a bit and I know it’s probably going to not be as perfect as what many of your all’s theories and ideas were themselves, but I hope that this and the story overall is still enjoyable. Because completing my first big fic for Transformers – especially one so long and taxing – really is a true sense of accomplishment and pride I’ve not felt in a while. And it’s bittersweet to finally part 
> 
> Special thanks to Isame, squireofgeekdom, and kimbnr for the feedback. But seriously, thank all of you for reading and continuing to support me and this story all along the way. I’m gracious for being allowed to enjoy your company so far. 
> 
> Thank you very much, and I wish you all the best!

**Part V: The Day the World Caught Fire  
Chapter 5.5: Know Not What We May Be**

When all of it began, seemingly ages ago, Optimus could not have anticipated the resolution. And, upon seeing it, he still wasn’t convinced that he  _wanted_ to see the way it had all come together.

At least, not under Starscream.

“Not only has our darkest hour passed with advances in protective medical technologies, a more cohesive society, and strengthened alliances all under the name of Cybertron, those who sought to put us in chaos now are permanently vanquished, and in their place is the greatest hope we as Cybertronians have seen since before the ages of War.  _New life!_ With the Hot Spot discovered at Nyon and the boom in care providers who are volunteering services in order to assist the rearing of our new generation.”

Starscream’s words were cheered loudly enough that even the boom of the projectors above them were nearly drowned out. And though there was nothing  _wrong_ with the speech — at least in that it was one Optimus himself would have possibly delivered in the same circumstances — there was an inherent, or perhaps  _inescapable,_ smugness and authority in everything which the former Decepticon said.

He was smirking with one side of his mouth more than the other, knowing and cocky. And his eyes were dulled with satisfaction at the crowd’s crowing.

Optimus felt a desire to step in, to assert his own form of leadership. And it was not a desire that he hid well, as Windblade was quick to put a hand on his elbow. It was gentle, not directional, but it was enough to remind Optimus of something that he was all too familiar with from his own ruling.

_The greater good._

That same obviousness, however, seemed to draw Starscream in with the temptation to test his own look. He grinned as he turned to face Optimus  _just enough_ before waving to the podium.

“Is there anything you wish to add, Optimus Prime?”

Windblade’s hand dropped from Optimus’ arm and she leered at Starscream with pure irritation. And,  _somehow_ , that gaze alone seemed to pull some rare sense out of Starscream as he floundered some words and began to turn back around toward the crowds, as if to move on.

Optimus appreciated Windblade’s protectiveness, but he also did not need it.

He broke the awkward moment by stepping forward toward the podium, surprising no one more than Starscream himself. But the so-called Chosen One stepped aside to allow Optimus the stage.

There was a mixed reaction from the present crowds — the same mix that Optimus assumed was felt across the planet and off-planet colonies overall. They were not sure what to make of a Prime let alone this particular Prime, whose seeming assistance in this time of need had mostly been behind the scenes they were most concerned with.

“We have overcome a dire chapter in our species’ history,” Optimus announced. “And we have done so in thanks to the bravery of all individuals who truly showed themselves and their character when they were called upon.” He waved to the front of the crowd where the medical team sat, surprised by the directed attention. “Our heroes are the heroes we take for granted each and every day. Hopefully, now, we will remember to never take for granted them and all of those we love again.”

A small harmony of clapping readily grew in support of the sentiment.

Windblade clapped as well, Starscream did not. Optimus noticed, but he kept himself in check. He reminded himself what  _mattered._

Then he turned to face Starscream enough to wave to him directly.

“And, of course, those who lead us in trying times should also be remembered for leadership and exceptionalism. For that, I thank you, Starscreaml. And, of course, the Counsel and Delegate Windblade.”

The sentiment received even  _more_ cheers, but the disruptive way it settled in his energon was worth it for Optimus to see the bluster and irritation Starscream was undergoing.

It was the acknowledgement that Starscream had been looking for for most of his life. And he got it only under duress and secrecy, with Optimus and Windblade — those who seemed to matter to the Seeker on the stage — knowing all too well that the true meanings of the words were not at all for Starscream himself.

And that, in a way, made it even more worth it. A small touch of spite which Optimus would allow himself to keep.

The press meeting did not continue for too much longer after that. There were more micromanaging concerns to address — taxes going toward recovery of buildings and districts, promises of more funding for construction that was bound to excite more than a few Constructicons.

But Optimus didn’t have the patience to stay for it. His part was done.

He left, offering a gentle hand on Windblade’s shoulder, a sign of solidarity and support for their common goals, before moving on.

There was a very important ship he had to see off. And, judging by who was waiting on the outside of it, his appearance was fairly anticipated as well.

Megatron stood at the entrance of the Lost Light, taking care for his feet to not touch Cybertronian soil.

As if he and Optimus Prime were not fully aware of the previous violations in that area already.

“Megatron,” Optimus said abrasively.

“Prime,” Megatron answered in kind.

They stood by each other for a long moment before Optimus made a point of looking away. He was, after all, on  _Megatron’s_ ship, the one Optimus forced out of its previous captain’s possession to do so. It was the right call, the only call. And that was not making any of it any easier.

“I do want to make sure that you know that co-captain is not an actual position,” Megatron said.

“Is this the time you want to test your authority with a mutiny?” Optimus asked suspiciously.

“Not at all, but it  _isn’t_ a position,” Megatron informed him again. “You still told the captain to become my  _co-captain_ to undermine me and to demote and punish him. I assumed for all this time that it was your lack of subtlety but, seeing as how I and Rodimus have made quite the team in the adventures since, I now wonder if you actually had forgotten the hierarchy of military branches  _or_ if your monkey’s paw unexpectedly came back to bite.”

“I’m glad you get along,” Optimus responded noncommittally before continuing on into the Lost Light. “But, I will remind you, Megatron, you are too smart to think that you can change destiny.”

“I agree, I am,” Megatron answered. “ _You_ are the one who continuously denies the inevitable.”

Optimus didn’t answer, merely smirking before continuing forward.

Rodimus was deep in the ship, between his ever present companions Drift and Ultra Magnus, but his attention predictably seemed elsewhere. There was a distance to his optics that would have made Optimus believe before that the other Autobot was not taking his position seriously enough.

Anymore, Optimus’ thoughts instead were on whether the bot was too busy thinking forward or backward.

The two companions noticed Optimus’ approach first and noticeably stiffened in attention, while Rodimus took a moment longer, looking over Optimus’ way in due time. He didn’t seem to stand nearly as sternly in alert with the others.

It was an ease with him that Optimus had not yet earned, but was still incredibly grateful for.

“Rodimus, I was hoping to speak with you before I left,” he informed them. He took a wary look around him to the business of the ship and cleared his voice box slightly. “Or, rather, I suppose before  _you_ left.”

“Sure thing,” Rodimus answered without a moment’s hesitation. He then looked to the others before stepping away. “Have you guys got this?”

“We already  _had_ it,” Drift assured him, putting an almost affectionate touch to the way he clapped Rodimus’ silver plated shoulder before glancing toward Magnus. They both left the spot, albeit with some casually cautious glances between each other.

“You have a supremely capable crew,” Optimus observed out loud.

“Minus some that Starscream offered better deals,” Rodimus huffed, folding one unpainted silver plated arm over the garishly flame painted other. “Not that I’m bitter or anything. Have to worry about the fate of the species and all that. I guess. And at least Ratchet’s staying with us… gonna be weird not having First Aid. But. I guess I’m glad. Or whatever.”

“You are still unpainted,” Optimus added clumsily, not wanting to dwell on Starscream and the fate of Cybertron for much longer than he already had.

“Been busy,” Rodimus shrugged. “I need a new paint job. The old one was getting cliche.”

Optimus let the words settle between them for a while, feeling heavy and unmeaningful in its greater context. Rodimus had other reasons to be hesitant about being whole again it seemed. It also seemed that, by no one but Optimus’ own fault, he was not privy to the reasoning.

But that was something that brought them to where they were. “Rodimus… I truly am glad that I got to speak with you again before… well, before we could leave things unsaid between us,” he confessed.

“What kind of things?” Rodimus asked, a flicker of worry crossing his face.

“The kind that should have been said much sooner,” Optimus continued. “Rodimus… When you carried the Matrix, and chose to gave it to me, I gave you a new name.” Something in Rodimus perked up, as if the memory itself was helping his back grow straighter. “I felt pride, for having known you for so long, for seeing how far you came. And, after the war, when we saw again and I showed… resentment for all that growth stood for, or how I seemed to assume you had fallen short of wha you needed to grow still, I held anger beyond just what you had been through. I held anger for what  _I_ had fallen short of, as well. And it was unfair for my judgment to extend as far as it had.”

There was a certain awkwardness to the silence. Rodimus’ face was less than impressed as he reached back and rubbed at the back of his helm. “Uh. Okay. I mean. I had just done a lot of stupid scrap, so it’s not like it was  _completely_ uncalled for. Maybe  _mostly_ uncalled for—“

Seeing that he still was not expressing himself adequately, Optimus reached out and laid heavy hands on Rodimus’ shoulders. He could actually could feel the stiffness grow in Rodimus’ body as he tried to rise and meet the strength of Optimus’ grasp.

“What I am attempting to say,” Optimus said gently, “is that I have been wrong. We are different in more ways, but what I see  _most_ with you, Rodimus, what I have always seen, is the capacity for far more greatness than either of us know. And I have seen that capacity from the first time we met. And I am sorry for making that harder to know than it should be.”

Rodimus cycled his optics twice that Optimus could count before he leaned back on his heels. “Oh. Well. Uh. Can’t say I expected to hear that today. Or…  _any_ day, actually. Like. Wow. Thanks?”

“No, Rodimus, thank you,” Optimus said. “I see now that you have all the capacity for good and more in you that I saw the day we first met.”

Rodimus’ faceplate seemed to warm up. “Heh. I guess because of the whole… time-magic me and… stuff. Yeah. It was pretty cool.”

“No, not because of that,” Optimus shook his head. “From you.  _You_ that you are now has shown me that and more.”

“Okay, well, now I’m going to do this before I can regret it,” Rodimus muttered quickly.

“Do what?” Optimus asked just before Rodimus’ arms wrapped around his midsection, squeezing him tightly.

“I’ve always wanted to hear that from you, Optimus, you have no idea how… how much I wanted —  _still want_ — to be you,” he confessed.

Optimus eased into the alien feeling of the embrace and put gentle hands on Rodimus’ back. “Do not be me, Rodimus. Be better. Just as I know you will be.”

And that, subtly but surely, made the Matrix deep within Optimus’ chest feel a warmth and security he had long been missing.

* * *

Windblade felt her smile only grow as the doctors each took her offered hand to shake. There was a certain  _official_ feeling to the sentiment, something that felt truer and more real than other gestures. Though, if pressed, she couldn’t answer why.

“I very much look forward to working more with you, doctors,” she added.

“You should,” Knock Out snarked, a gentle shrug of his shoulders as if he was letting the compliment bounce off his armor. It wasn’t completely fair, though, because there was definitely a greater fullness to the way Knock Out held his chest after her compliments. His demeanor was more rewarded and confident even if his pride wouldn’t allow it to be shown.

First Aid, though, was more genuine, and he quickly shook Windblade’s hand in return after wrapping both of his own around it. “The honor is all mine, Councilor. I’m hoping, with what we’ve learned, these sorts of diseases and viruses can be all but eradicated as a threat to the future of Cybertron. And, er, the other worlds. Obviously.”

Nodding, Windblade knew what he meant. They were more connected now — more in sync. They were not simply a collection of planets with a single ancestry and a single court uniting them. They were the same world, the same people, regardless of distance.

“Velocity was my sorority sister,” Windblade informed the relatively young doctor. “She’s spoken fondly of your tutelage, and that together you learned  _many_ things on the Lost Light about medicine and care. Hopefully the council will continue to benefit your research as much as possible.”

“I believe it will,” First Aid said confidently.

“Of  _course_ it will,” Knock Out called, clapping a hand on First Aid’s shoulder as he did so. “After all, what easier way to get funding than to have a partnership with someone within the Council!”

First Aid stiffened at the touchiness of the Velocitronian, but other than pinching at the bridge of his nose, he didn’t seem to resist the touch.

Amused, Windblade almost commented on the moment until her attention was grabbed by a whiff of familiar purple smoke far behind the two doctors. She cycled her optics and looked to the corner where the smoke had been and saw two shadows duck further out of sight. But the appearance was very much on purpose.

Taking a quick assessment of the crowd around her, Windblade could see that no one else in the busied capitol building had taken notice of the new arrivals, including the two doctors she had been conversing with. And so, she made a point of nodding to the two of them and beginning to walk around them.

“Sorry, it seems I’m needed. Please let me know if I can help with anything,” she said as she excused herself and headed toward the corner.

No one seemed the wiser to her actions as she slowly walked away from the crowds. So, when she was confident she captured no one’s attention, she more hurriedly rounded the corner to see what was going on.

And just as Windblade had thought, the two faces that met her were strange but familiar — older than the years they should have been then and there on Cybertron, but just what she had come to expect from the time traveling versions of herself and Rodimus.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Windblade confessed. She then awkwardly rubbed at her arm. “Um. I mean,  _eventually_  see you. In time. I’ll… stop before I confuse you as much as I’m confused… I mean…”

Gratefully, Windblade’s future self smiled sympathetically and nodded to her. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Future Rodimus stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t, but it’s one of those things that we can probably skate by with only one of us knowing.”

More than a little confused and a little intimidated by the situation, Windblade looked between the two travellers nervously. “Is… Is there something else the matter? Do we need to… I don’t know, do something? Save time and space?”

“Eh, not today,” Rodimus shrugged. “We just needed to make sure you knew you were going about things right, that we have the time travel shenanigans on wraps on our end. And… Well, just in general, tie up some loose ends.”

When Windblade looked to her future self for some clarification, she received another sheepish shrug. “I remembered this happening,” she explained.

“Oh, well. I’m… glad?” Windblade laughed softly. “I mean that. I’m glad to have those worries put at ease and… to have a peak at what’s to come.” Her optics settled on the future Prime. “I look forward to working with you.”

He held a bit of a crooked smile at the comment. “You’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

“It’s a Prime tradition,” Windblade countered.

“Speaking of work, we have our own to do,” her future self announced before stepping forward and surprising Windblade with a hug. “Trust your instincts. Even when it’s hard. And that’s how everything will work out for you.”

Surprised as she was, Windblade felt at ease by those words. “Thank you, thank you for everything,” she told them.

Then, in as quick of a wisp as they had come, the future mechs were gone, leaving Windblade alone in the hall.

At least for the moment.

“There you are,” the familiar crackly tone of Starscream grumbled as he came toward her. “I was ready to start the new business agenda for the Council, but they all  _insist_ on having your presence, Windblade. You would think that  _you_ had more to do with settling these crises than  _I_ did, and we know how untrue that is.”

Windblade’s warm smile remained on her face even as she faced Starscream, which seemed to throw the leader for a loop of his own.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, suspicious and wary.

“Nothing’s the matter, Starscream,” she declared, walking toward him. “I’m just excited about the future of Cybertron.”

“Oh? The one  _you_ have planned?” Starscream sneered a bit.

“The one all of us have planned, Starscream,” she corrected before stopping and giving him a calculated look. “As long as we all plan for the best.”

He seemed to consider the warning for a bit before putting on one of his secretive smiles. “Of course, Windblade.”

“Good,” she replied. “Because the Council has a bright future planned. And I don’t think the past is going to look kindly on anyone who stands in the way of it.”

* * *

Rodimus had heard some things bout the time travelers - that they used time magic in suitcases and were familiar with Error. Which also meant they were probably familiar with who he  _had_ been before going into theatrics and murder.

People seemed, generally, fairly cagey about details. Especially around Rodimus. But people seemed cagey about Rodimus in general. Maybe it didn’t have anything, specifically, to do with time travel magic. He sincerely  _doubted_ that was the case, but it put him more at ease to consider it.

He was doing that a lot more since the whole ordeal came about.  _Considering_ things.

For however brief of an amount of time, Rodimus lost the entirety of his crew. For however brief of an amount of time, Rodimus had knowingly or unknowingly been used to murder his new crew. And, for  _however brief_ of an amount of time, Rodimus had lost the entirety of himself.

Those were things that Rodimus had never realized, how badly, he did not want to lose them until they had very well been lost.

Maybe it was growth. But it was more like Rodimus had been — quite literally — smacked in the face with the values he hadn’t allowed himself to express more. And he had the scars to prove its impact.

There was a part of Rodimus that wanted more assurance, wanted to know definitively that he would make good on that  _potential_ that Optimus had so loftily described in him just earlier, before going his separate ways again. It was the sort of adoration and the sort of personal confirmation that Rodimus had been working for most of his time to achieve. One way or the other.

After finally getting it, he wasn’t sure what his next driving force was going to be. Maybe if he had met the time displaced travelers, had gotten to ask what he could work toward, he would have it at the ready.

But, strangely enough, as he tested the flexion of his newly modified hand, Rodimus didn’t feel like he needed it anymore. Not in the same way.

If anyone asked him, he would claim spite — spite for what Error did to him and made him do to others, spite for the claims Error made about who Rodimus was or could be.

It wasn’t completely true. But it would work.

Time was counting down until the Lost Light took off from Cybertron.  _Again._ And rather than speak to the crew himself, Rodimus was letting Megatron do it. He was better at that sort of thing

Rodimus hung back in his office, at his desk, wondering what he would do next to prove himself, to prove that illusive potential.

Drift was nearby, arms crossed at the office door. “You look like you’ve got something on the processor. What is it?”

Tapping his fingers against his desk, Rodimus hummed and stretched himself out. It was an attempt to look casual. Drift didn’t seem particularly fooled by it. “Well, we’ve got all of the future ahead of us, right?” he asked.

“Sure seems like it,” Drift agreed.

“I think my answer is that I want a historian to come talk to me after we get into space,” Rodimus decided.

“A historian? I’m sure we’ve got people to fit the bill. Maybe an archivist like Rewind,” Drift offered. He then paused and flinched slightly. “Maybe not Rewind. He  _did_ uppercut you.”

“That feels like  _ages_ ago,” Rodimus laughed. “No, no. That makes him perfect. Get me Rewind when you can.”

That didn’t seem to put Drift at  anymore ease. “ _Punched_ you, Rodimus.”

“He won’t sugarcoat it, then!” Rodimus explained without explaining whatsoever.

“Sugarcoat  _what?”_ Drift asked.

“The records — our records. The  _ship’s_ records,” Rodimus explained. “We know there’s a  _lot_ of future nonsense and people wanting to rewrite history, I’m going to make it my new mission to keep it all straight.”

“History? You’re going to keep history straight?” Drift asked, a little bewildered given his tone.

“The good, the bad, the ugly. While we’re  _making_ history we might as well as set the record straight, right?” Rodimus grinned.

“Sounds like setting yourself up for other time travelers to know exactly  _where_ you are  _when_ you are,” Drift pointed out. “Actually it sounds like setting up exactly what just happened to us.”

“Well, Drift, I guess that’s just a risk I’m willing to take,” Rodimus shrugged. “We’ve got a future ahead of us, buddy. Might as well as make the most of it. What do you think?”

Drift smiled himself and waled over to the desk to offer his hand. “I think, as always, it sounds like a true honor. I look forward to it. All of it.”

“Good, bad,  _and_ ugly?” Rodimus teased.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Drift agreed. He then nodded to the doorway, where a group of familiar heads ducked back out of the way — Rodimus noticed rather clearly that Nautica, Velocity, Brainstorm, Nightbeat, and Rung were among them. “I can think of some others that feel the same.”

Rodimus, feeling truly content again, sat back.

He didn’t know the specifics of what was to come for himself or anyone else, but he did know that his new mission would make it worth it. Whether it was predetermined or not. He was encouraged by the legacy left ahead for him.

And that was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End


End file.
